Moab photos here.

Colorado photos here.

So I left off writing once I arrived in Golden. I’d set aside one full day and two nights in Golden before I hit the road again for Montana. The rain and gloom persisted the last leg of the drive to Golden, and I was hoping the weather would cooperate while I was there.

I used the morning to sleep in a little and had a tasty ham and cheddar omelet at the hotel’s restaurant. Then I drove into Golden to visit my alma mater and see what changes have been wrought upon the campus.

The tiny turn-of-the-century sorority house I used to live in has been leveled, along with all the other houses on the entire block, to build a new student recreation center with weight rooms, a rock climbing wall, pool tables, and other amenities I wish I could’ve enjoyed when I was there. (Someone has vandalized the letters on the sign over the back entrance so it says “Stud Creation Center”.) The new sorority house is amazing, too. Built in 2003, it holds about 30 students, and has a formal dining room, living room with large flat panel television, huge kitchen with an island and three large refrigerators, plus during the year they have meals prepared 6 days a week by a cook. Damn, I missed the boat on that count. We were on our own with a tiny house we rented that accommodated 10 students.

Berthoud Hall, the geology building, no longer houses the geology museum. It has instead relocated down the hill to a building almost entirely its own save some research labs, and I was impressed at the displays it held. It has a large section devoted to Mines’ history, the school’s acquisition of the Edgar Mine where mining engineers now get hands-on training, and more general Colorado mining history. I knew the school was started to support the greater demand for miners in the area in the 1870s, but what I didn’t know was that it was specifically the discovery of gold ore in the hills outside Golden that resisted the available metallurgical extraction techniques which led to discussions about the start of a university where advanced extraction methods could be developed. There were even pictures of early mineralogy classes where the men were studying trays of rocks, and all of them wore suits and ties to class.

The museum also contains an impressive collection of mineral specimens and gemstones, some permanently donated to the college and some on loan from various collections. The downstairs wing has a display of mining equipment, fluorescing minerals under black light, and meteorites. What I was most impressed with there, though, was a display on the uranium mining that rose rapidly in the 40s and 50s as demand exploded for the ore. In it was a children’s board game with a finding uranium theme, an old Popular Mechanics magazine which contained instructions on building your own uranium detector, and other historical facts about how the safety aspects of uranium mining were handled (or more commonly ignored) in the quest for the valuable ore. Because most uranium miners were paid based on production, they were motivated to work long hours with no masks in unventilated mines where they inhaled large amounts of uranium dust. Many developed lung cancer as a result of the radioactive residue built up in their chests.

Downtown Golden was a mix of change and sameness. The Ace-Hi Tavern where Mines students have been going for years to get discounted pitchers of Coors still stands, as does Woody’s Pizza, the first bar I went to celebrate my 21st birthday. Foss Drugstore is still there, too, though the wonderful and reasonably priced breakfast and lunch restaurant that used to be above it—the Golden Ram—is long gone. What struck me the most was the sheer number of new condo buildings all over downtown, and from what I hear from a client who just returned from house-hunting along the Front Range, they’re ridiculously overpriced.

After leaving downtown, I headed up Mt. Zion to the Mines “M”, Buffalo Bill’s Grave (one of several locations that claims to be his final resting place), wandered down around to Red Rocks Park and Amphitheatre, and over to Dinosaur Ridge to pick up some squished pennies for souvenirs. As I was wandering around the Red Rocks visitor’s center, I kept questioning how I could’ve missed the fact that it even had a visitor’s center. Turns out it was constructed in 2004, well after I’d left Denver.

I considered seeing if I could still make my way to the Coors Brewery tasting room through the back entrance like I used to (”Coors lab” the students called it), but parking at the brewery was scarce, and I wasn’t really in the mood for a brew. Instead, I drove up to Boulder to see how much it had changed. The Foundry, where I used to shoot pool regularly, is still in its spot downtown. Except in north Boulder, the tofu-and-granola statists haven’t otherwise let Boulder grow too much.

I planned to visit my favorite sushi restaurant in Denver, but I had a couple of hours to kill before they opened, so I went to see the new Indiana Jones movie. Fun flick—faithful to the tradition of an entertaining, humorous time at the movies.

Then I drove into the Washington Park area of Denver to go to Japon, the place where I was first introduced to sushi—where it all began, and home of the best sushi I’ve ever had. The place has been remodeled and expanded, but I had a wonderful meal sitting at the bar, slowly enjoying an Asahi. Even got a free extra piece of maguro tataki from the chef. The food was as fabulous as I remember… amaebi (with the heads fried), spicy tuna hand rolls, sake nigiri. I left very full, satisfied, drowsy, and ready to rest up for the long drive to Montana the next morning.

Alright, first, some updated stats. I’ll do a full writeup on Colorado and Montana later. Plus pictures—I haven’t forgotten those.

Cop counts are as follows:

• Colorado - 19
• Utah - 8
• Montana - 7
• Oregon - 5 or 6
• Idaho - 4
• Washington - 3
• Wyoming - 2

Most expensive gas: still $4.40 a gallon for regular unleaded in what I now know to be Cimarron, Colorado. Though I managed to keep it under $4 a gallon the entire trip, Washington prices have gone up some 30 cents to $4.22 a gallon since I left. (Oil-speculatin’ bastards. Say hello to the oil bubble which has replaced the housing bubble.)

Miles driven: 3,657

Cities/towns visited: 8

Bottles of beer consumed: too many to count

Every time I come back from Montana, I have a progressively harder time readjusting to life here. Though there are quirks to small towns—and Philipsburg is no exception—I haven’t yet seen anything that would constitute a deal-breaker in terms of relocating permanently. It doesn’t help that some of the wonderful friends I’ve made urge me to make the move every time I visit.

I have much pondering to do about this.

I’ve been counting police vehicles spotted on my trip.  The only rule is that I’m counting only highway sightings, as including city cops would skew the results even further than they are already by the disproportionate amount of time I’m spending in each of 7 states.  Though now that I think about it, I didn’t see a single cop in Moab in three days…

The totals are as follows:

• Colorado - 10 (for the lead)
• Utah - 8
• Oregon - 5, maybe 6, including a roadside search (I’m not certain if the state patrol I saw zoom past me to nab a speeder was the same one I’d seen minutes earlier on a bluff overlooking the interstate, or a second car working in tandem with the one I spotted)
• Idaho - 3 (though two were dealing with an overturned vehicle, only one was a speed trap)
• Washington - 3

Oregon’s placement is noteworthy considering how small a distance I actually drove through the state.  I miss the days when Oregon had almost no funding for state patrol.  All the ones I saw this trip were driving shiny new Dodge Chargers.  Clearly funding isn’t a problem for them anymore.

So far the most expensive regular unleaded gasoline I’ve seen was in some tiny no-name town with one store east of Montrose, Colorado, and it comes in at a whopping $4.40 a gallon.  Prior to that, the record was $4.19 a gallon, seen just after I got over the Cascades in Washington.  But without much effort, I’ve kept all my refills under $4 a gallon.  Not that it matters; I’ll still be spending around $600 on gas this trip.

When I was on my way to Moab, I saw a store with a sign out front that said—no joke—$1.79 a gallon.  In fact, the two cars ahead of me swerved off at the last minute, presumably to check it out.  Being the skeptic that I am, and having more than plenty in the tank to continue on, I didn’t join them.

My first morning at Arches was the obligatory Delicate Arch hike. One of the most strenuous in the park because of its climb in elevation, the hike is about 3 miles round trip. I was glad I started out early while the weather was still cool enough, and even then the steep climb up exposed sandstone with no shade and no downhill parts was grueling.

Once at the top, the view never fails to disappoint, even with the hazy thin cloud layer we had that day. It’s something of a triumph to me to make that hike, plus Delicate Arch was the eastern edge of our mapping area when I was there for field camp.

While at the top, I spotted a group of Aggie grad geology students. Brunton compasses, magnifying loupes, clipboards… there was no mistaking their purpose. It brought back memories of my first visit, when, during a particularly miserable 100+ degree day, a group of us encountered an entire team of Aggies, clean and unmussed, being led through the area by their professor. There were many jokes made at their expense after they passed, ones centered primarily on the fact that it was now mid-week and their professor was still giving them a guided tour. We, on the other hand, got a cursory half-day introduction to the geologic units in the area and the extent we were to map, and our professors turned us loose, saying we could ask any questions if we were lucky enough to find them in the field. After that, we were on our own until we returned to camp in the evenings.

When I returned to my car at the bottom of the trail, I discovered a regular traffic jam had ensued in my absence. Arches has small—tiny actually—parking lots, and they’re all first-come, first-serve. There were empty spaces when I left on the hike, and a swarm of cars waiting for spaces when I returned. Getting up a little early paid off, though I wasn’t anywhere near alone or secluded on my hike.

I decided to drive up past the Fiery Furnace to Devil’s Garden, but the parking situation was even worse there, and as I was hot, tired, and hungry, I decided to shine it on and return to my hotel for a shower and some lunch in town. I had lunch at the Moab Brewery, which, though it’s a little touristy, has some excellent microbrews. I highly recommend the Derailleur Ale, if anyone happens to be down that way. I almost ended up taking a growler of it with me, but as I lacked refrigeration facilities, it would’ve been largely wasted.

About an hour before sunset, I returned to the park to capture some photos, which I’ll post later. The rich red sandstone looks most amazing in early and late sunlight, and I wasn’t the only one obviously driving around looking for that perfect photograph.

Day two saw me get up even earlier than before. I was determined to be at Devil’s Garden by 7AM both to secure a parking space and to start my hike before the sun started to bake the landscape. Our cloud cover from the previous day had almost entirely dissipated, and I wanted the cool morning breeze on me as I hiked. As it turns out, the time and location made for an incredible, secluded hike where I saw few others.

Devil’s Garden has about half a mile of good trail up to Landscape Arch, after which the path becomes what the park service calls “primitive,” meaning less maintained and more challenging. I’ve done the full 7.5-mile primitive trail loop once. It takes you over and through some amazing sandstone fins and crevasses, and you could likely cover much of the distance without seeing another living soul, but after that it dumps you out to walk uphill across half a mile of fine, dry, sand with no shade save some scrub brush hardly tall enough to squat behind, and which gives you the added bonus of having to swat the gnats that hover around it. Thanks, but not again. Once was enough.

As a compromise, I hiked the primitive trail to Double O Arch (it’s all about the O), which is 4.2 miles round trip. At one point the trail runs along the top of one of the sandstone fins, and that morning the wind was blowing so hard I was afraid I’d either topple off (40+ feet on the leeward side), or I’d lose my hat. So I sat on the top of the ridge for awhile, completely alone, and enjoyed the moment while I rested a bit until I felt ready to brave the gusts and make my way to flatter ground further along the trail.

As before, when I finally trudged back to my car, the parking space seekers were out in full force, and the number of people I saw on the return hike grew exponentially the further I walked. Getting up early was definitely a wise decision. I saw some lizards and ground squirrels that probably wouldn’t have been out later in the day, or would’ve been scared off by the throngs of camera-wielding buffoons who don’t know how to observe nature without trying to interact with it.

I decide to forgo Canyonlands because the park service has eliminated the twofer one used to get where admission to either Arches or Canyonlands gave you admission to the other. What can I say? I’m cheap, and while Upheaval Dome is fascinating geology, it’s not something I’d pay $10 for all by itself. Oddly, when I was at Upheaval Dome last, there was much back-and-forth about the cause of the dome’s creation (meteorite strike or salt dome). The dominant theory was that it was the remnants of a hot salt-sucking anticline (a description I owe to my professor). That is, a salt intrusion had risen up from deeper in the earth’s mantle, deforming the land into a dome. Then the salt had dissolved in solution, causing the dome to collapse. Now, however, researchers have found shocked quartz in and around the dome, lending significant weight to the meteorite strike theory, because a salt dome wouldn’t have created the intense pressures needed to generate shocked quartz at the site. Sorry, a little geology digression…

Anyway, I’m now in Golden, Colorado. I decided not to take the most direct path from Moab, which would’ve taken me over I-70 and through the Eisenhower Tunnel, because it’s a route I’ve traveled more times than I care to count. Instead, I went down through Cortez to Durango, up to Molas Lake and Silverton (locations of the final weeks of field camp), had lunch at Handlebars, and then drove north along the Million Dollar Highway to Ouray. From there, I went up to Montrose, east to Gunnison, with a brief stop in Salida (week 4 of field camp) and then northeast to Golden. Again, I’ll have pictures later. Suffice to say there was still a lot of snow at Molas Pass. Those poor field students will be wading in it waist-deep trying to map rocks they can’t see if it doesn’t thaw soon.

Not sure what my plans are here in Golden just yet, other than seeing what Mines has done with their geology museum and wandering around the campus.

On the negative sided, my mp3 player has been acting up. Please, please, FSM, in the name of all that is sacred, don’t let me drive through Wyoming without a functioning mp3 player. It can break once I get home, but listening to nothing but country and preachin’ will likely make me want to ram my car into a tree.

I apologize for the dearth of posting lately. Work has been putting some serious demands on my time, and though I’m enjoying it, the 60-70 hour weeks are getting a little old. I don’t have time to blog from work (er, I mean, I would never blog from work, honest!), and when I arrive home, the muse has left me and I have little energy to pen anything here.

But all is not lost. I’m on a much-needed sitting vacation (my first real vacation in a year) getting ready to go hiking in Moab, Utah. This is my fourth visit to this gorgeous sandstone country. My first week of field session in college brought me here for the first time, and it enchanted me so much I’ve repeatedly wanted to return. After I leave Moab, my trip plans may just lead me to cross paths with the current field session’s crop of engineering students, too. They should be around their third or fourth week of the six-week session, placing them in a handful of possible locations in the mountains of Colorado, some of which I’ll be passing through.

It never ceases to amaze me how a long road trip can clear my mind of all extraneous thought and open it up to memories and emotions long buried. Mostly I’ve been inundated with memories of driving to and from college, the memories of that first trip to start my freshman year, and of field session. All the extraneous garbage and clutter—the mountain of work and professional challenges facing me this summer, the constant drone of the news about the economy/war/elections—all of it has been blissfully, gently nudged aside for a great calm accompanied by some beautiful scenery.

When I arrived, the characteristic scent of Moab smacked me in the face, a wave of nostalgia washing over me. I’d forgotten the distinct smell here. It’s slightly minty, a sweet odor with a hint of floral overtones. Moab has grown in the 7 years since my last visit, but the surrounding country is as amazing as I remember it.

Anyway, time’s a-wastin’. I’m off to Arches National Park, and perhaps Upheaval Dome today. But I’ll leave you with this: the restaurant I had dinner at last night had a note in the drink menu saying that Utah law allows you to take home the unused portion of a bottle of wine you’ve purchased as long as it’s been cork-sealed again. For resealing the bottle, the restaurant charges you a ridiculous $5. I’d pay $5 for them to stuff a cork in it, but when I say “it”, I’m not referring to the wine.

The hockey weekend has now come and gone, and overall, it was worth the trip.

Saturday, I got up painfully early for my shuttle ride to the airport. This time I was prepared with small enough toiletries that I could comply with the 3-1-1 (3 oz bottles, 1 quart plastic bag, 1 person) nonsense imposed by the transportation security assholes.

The shuttle made one other stop, and off we went to the airport. Along the way, it started to snow–lightly, not really sticking. When I arrived at the airport, I queued up with the other lemmings to get “screened”.

Lately I’ve found that they’ve added, deleted, and changed so many stipulations that I just don’t know what to do with myself anymore, and it’s frustrating because I’m usually so organized and together that I can just breeze right through the process. Remove my shoes or no? Liquids out or not? Coat on or off? The myriad of steps to do the security Hokey Pokey makes my head hurt.

When I flew to San Francisco, I forgot to take my house keys out of my pocket before walking through the metal detector–thankfully, nothing happened, and I didn’t end up being felt up or getting an anal probe in a back room. This time through screening, I forgot to take out my plastic bag of toiletries and place them in a tray, and nearly forgot to take off my shoes. Fortunately, the screener running the x-ray machine cheerfully reminded me to take my liquids out of my suitcase (after my possessions had gone through, no less), and no one said anymore about it. On the way home, I nearly forgot to take off my shoes (I just LOVE having to partially undress at the airport), and again forgot to take my toiletries out of the suitcase. This time, the screeners reminded me of these things before me or my luggage went through the scanners. No harm done. But it’s still all bullshit that doesn’t make us any safer. Hell, it doesn’t even accomplish its true goal, which is really to make me FEEL safer, not BE safer. *sigh*

We had a beautiful flight once we got past the gray sky blanketing most of the northwest. By the time the cloud layer broke, we were over central Oregon, and I was treated to a gorgeous view of a snow-covered Crater Lake and Mt. McLoughlin. We landed in Burbank without incident, the air surprisingly clean from the previous day’s rain.

M. picked me up at curbside. I really do long for the days when family and friends could have meaningful reunions at the gate, instead of hurried greetings at curbside where the security thugs rush you along lest you conspicuously stop your vehicle for more than a few seconds. But off we went to Pasadena to buy our tickets for the Gamble House.

We had more than a few hours to kill after picking up our tour tickets, so we drove downtown and had coffee at a local shop. I was in dire need of a caffeinated pick-me-up after my 3AM awakening. The television in the shop kept updating a map of freeway traffic speeds throughout the metro area, which amused me. The coffee was good, the service was friendly, and we enjoyed a nice leisurely chat.

After that, we decided to waste a little more time by driving up to Mt. Wilson Observatory in the San Gabriel Mountains. As a Pacific Northwesterner, I’m always amused when I see signs saying we’ve entered the Angeles National Forest, and all I can see are sage, scrub, and cacti, and nothing that might even remotely qualify as a tree in any form that I’ll acknowledge.

Along the twisty highway we went, with the temperature steadily dropping as we climbed. Being the geology geek that I am, I watched the road cuts far more than the actual scenery, except in the few spots where we could get glimpses of shining Los Angeles spreading in all its expansive glory far below.

As we approached the observatory, we discovered that access to the public had ceased for the season the day before, and we weren’t able to see much of LA because of the chilling fog blanketing the mountains. The temperature–33 degrees–made me a little chilly, but M. was positively freezing. You just can’t take LA natives anywhere cold without them looking miserable. We stopped and walked a little way up the trail towards Mt. Lowe, but neither of us was really dressed for a long hike in that climate, and after a quick look around, we headed back down.

The Gamble House was everything I expected it to be. Having been an avid fan of A&E’s America’s Castles, this is the only home they’ve ever featured that, were I wealthy enough, I’d enjoy owning. It is vastly different from those pretentious, nauseatingly gaudy Victorian and Renaissance homes popular with industrial giants such as the Vanderbilts during America’s Guilded Age. (For you Firefly fans, Gamble House’s exterior was shown as Simon and River Tam’s childhood home in the episode “Safe”.)

Built in 1908 for David and Mary Gamble (of Proctor & Gamble) and designed by architect brothers Charles and Henry Greene, it is a fascinating, gorgeous example of arts and crafts architecture. Seventeen different kinds of wood are found in the house, which features hand-carved wood inlays, and even small mahogany caps to cover metal joinery used in construction. Much of the house, however, uses no metal bolts or screws or nails of any kind, and, impressively enough, the house has needed little seismic retrofitting over the years. In fact, the most signifiant earthquake damage it has sustained over the past 99 years is a toppled chimney.

In the home’s design, the architects incorporated several motifs that can be found throughout the house, such as the Gamble family crest: a rose and crane. Most of the rooms contain the original furniture, also designed by Greene and Greene specifically for Gamble House. Our docent also told us that David and Mary’s son Cecil and his wife briefly considered selling the home in the 1940s, and had a buyer lined up, until his wife overheard the prospective owners discussing brightening the dark rooms by painting all the woodwork white!

After our tour, we headed back to M.’s place for a beer, stopped for dinner, and then braved the traffic into downtown LA. We were pretty fortunate to find a relatively cheap parking lot only a block from Staples Center. Once we found our seats, we purchased beers ($10.50 each!!!) and settled down to listen to the starting lineups. To my dismay (and more than a little cursing), Joe Sakic was a scratch for the Avs, and, to add insult to injury, they put Jose Theodore in the net. Theo isn’t fit to play for Lucretia’s Home for Wayward Fat Girls, much less a professional NHL team. I grumbled (silently) about this development all the way through the national anthem.

And my boys didn’t get off to a great start, either. The Kings took the lead with two goals in the first period, and the Avs, despite one goal, were giving a lackluster performance on-ice.

But starting with the second period, they rebounded spectactularly, swarming the Kings 17 shots on goal, and they carried that momentum through the third, winning 5-2. I did my best not to gloat too much, and I gave M. a little friendly reminder that if he was a sore loser who made me sleep outside, he’d be sleeping outside in Washington on New Year’s Eve. I think that got my point across in a teasing-but-serious way.

My only complaint lies with Theo, and to a degree, the Avs’ defense. I couldn’t believe the sheer number of shots that slid right through the crease in front of Theo and weren’t capitalized on by the Kings. Theo is NOT a solid goalie, and I wish the Avs would dump him already. And if the D had been doing its job, the puck would never have entered the crease that much.

The next morning, I woke up with just enough time to shower and have M. take me to the airport for my flight back to Seattle. This time, I slept for much of the flight, once we flew over cloud cover (again, my inner geology geek had to look out the window until then). I arrived home to patches of snow, driving wind and rain, and an overwhelming relief to be out of the vast mess that is LA. But it was still worth the trip.

Observations

- Even the dumpiest apartments in LA have BMWs parked out front. It’s clear where they spend their money, and what comes first on the list if they can’t buy everything.

- LA is painfully, staggeringly image-conscious, which, to an outsider like me, is exhausting. I have neither the desire nor the inclination to play that game like LA residents play it.

- Driving around LA is an art, perfected over years. It’s not just knowing how to drive, but where to drive, and which shortcuts to take, and which freeways are more likely to be empty at certain times of the day. Again, exhausting.

- Security in smaller airports is likely to be a little more relaxed. The screener barely looked at my ID before he stamped my boarding pass, and I swear he was about to nap at his post. But the airlines aren’t anywhere near as organized when dealing with unscheduled events like flights that get canceled because of mechanical problems. When you’re boarding, and it involves walking out onto the tarmac to board a 737, and the podium agents are reading off seat numbers and crossing things off a printed list by hand, you know you’re in a small airport. Best be patient.

I know I’ve been largely silent on the blogging front, and you’d probably never notice the difference, but I’ll be in San Francisco for the next few days, which gives me a justification for the silence, this time.

A friend of mine has invited me down to L.A. for a Kings-Avalanche game in a couple months. Now the question is, do I accept and fly down there, or turn the opportunity down and wait for his visit up here for New Years Eve?

When the Tyrannical Scam Administration started confiscating toiletries, I concluded I’d flown my last, except in case of emergency or a rare work-related trip. Boxing myself in with a vow never to fly, ever again seemed unrealistic, but I thought I could stick to avoiding vacation flights. Somehow, my line in the sand was the threat of having my shampoo confiscated by uneducated goons unfit to scoop dog shit off the sidewalk.

And since then, I’ve adhered to it. Even when my grandmother passed away in Southern California, though it cost me two days of vacation, I drove down to my parents’ place and rode with them the rest of the way.

So what now? If I am to be at all honest, I really do want to go. I haven’t seen a hockey game since I left the Bay area, and before that, I watched the Avs bring Stanley home in 2001 in Denver, where, for a time, I had been on the wait list for season tickets. I miss it, and I hate the closest NHL team so much they aren’t ever going to see a dime of my money, for tickets or anything else.

What say you? To fly, or not to fly? Do I stick to principle, or eat my vow and have a good time?

When P. said he’d show me “the real Montana” that last night, I suspect he was referring to the outdoor scenery, but the quintessential image that stuck with me is this: you know you’re in Montana when you find yourself bouncing around helmetless on an ATV in the wee hours of the morning behind an armed man with a beer in his hand.

Needless to say, I had a blast in Montana this past week. This was my second trip out, and while the verdant Pacific Northwest is still my number one leading lady, I’d be lying if I didn’t say Montana, with her relaxed attitude and carefree lifestyle, is gaining on her.

The first full day there, I didn’t do a whole lot. My car was in severe need of a washing because I appear to have done my utmost to hit every insect in western Montana on the drive out, so after a bit of a lie-in, I drove to town to gas up and wash the worst of the bugs off. Then spent the rest of the day hanging out at P.’s gulch drinking beer and waiting for K. to arrive. I rode up to the gulch with M., which helped to correct the unbelievably wrong directions we took last year getting up to the gulch in the dark. P. threw his meat on the grill for us, and we whiled away the time giving each other shit and slapping away the mosquitoes.

The next day, K., B., and I spent some helpful but self-serving time cleaning up T.’s upstairs apartment so that we weren’t stepping/tripping over things or getting covered in plaster dust. What really struck me was when I found T’s truck keys under a particularly large pile of papers. He hadn’t seemed to be terribly concerned that they had been missing for some time—”Oh, I was wondering where those went.” I know I’d have been tearing my house apart for the keys, but not him. K. and I made a trip to the store for oil soap and a mop, and we polished the furniture (or “we polished his wood”, if you prefer).

After we’d showered all the plaster, dust, and oil off and felt refreshed, K. and I drove up to Gem Mountain to pan for sapphires. For a mere $12 FRNs, you are given a bucket and the necessary tools and instruction, and you’re rewarded with an oddly satisfying mix of mindless activity and small finds. By the end, I’d gotten good enough in my washing technique to get the sapphires into the center of the pan. Because it was near closing time, the line to have our sapphires evaluated for gem quality was pretty long and not budging, so K. and I decided to shine on the evaluation at that time and drive up to Skalkaho Falls. Beautiful drive, interesting conversation, and the serenity that only rushing, bubbling water can provide. Who can ask for more?

On the morning of day three I wasn’t feeling well, so I had another lie-in while K. and everyone else went up to P.’s gulch to help him dig a trench for some piping. I didn’t want to feel entirely lazy and useless, so I mopped T.’s floor with the oil soap. Not sure how much of a difference it made, but at least I accomplished something (and inadvertently gave myself a defense for later when I discovered I was maligned for not digging with everyone else).

When K. got back from the gulch, we packed off into her Element for our reservations on the underground mine tour at the World Mining Museum in Butte. When our tour began, I found myself wondering if we’d inadvertently booked the geriatric tour, as we were by far the youngest on the tour, and two of our fellow tourists had canes and severe difficulty walking. The guide walked us down the hill to a trailer where we were all fitted with hard hats, headlamps and belts with battery packs. Inside the mine, the temperature was 48 degrees, and I was a bit concerned because I hadn’t brought a jacket, but it felt heavenly after the outside heat. We were shown various types of mining equipment, some outdated and some in use, and went far enough in to see the main elevator shaft, which is now flooded with incredibly foul-smelling polluted water. The guide also showed us some examples of the wiring and patterns they use in blasting, and talked about Nonel and detcord, both of which I remember from my days hanging out with the demolition crews at a now-defunct bombing range outside Denver where we all worked.

What struck me most was the map at the mine entrance showing all the various adits, tunnels, shafts, drifts, and other excavations under the city of Butte. The maze extends as far underground as 4 miles, and makes the land supporting Butte look like Swiss cheese. I’m certain the scale makes a difference—it’s hard to tell how far apart all those tunnels really are—and because much of the tunneling is flooded, the water would help prevent collapses, but it was still mind-blowing to contemplate that much excavation under a town. I know the Paris Catacombs preclude the construction of tall buildings because the ground can’t support the weight, and that thought kept running through my mind while I looked at that map. Come to think of it, Butte doesn’t appear to have tall buildings, either…

Then we visited the Berkeley Pit viewing area. On the underground mine tour, we learned that pit operation stopped in 1982, and the pit contains the water from multiple mines in the Butte area. Actually, the area where the mine sits used to be home to several towns built over underground mines. When the price of copper was high enough that open pit copper mining in the area became profitable, the Anaconda Mining Company paid the homeowners off and then allowed them to buy their homes back—just the structures themselves—for $1. The owners would then use the remaining money to have their homes moved, keeping whatever was left over.

K. drove us back to town for a barbecue at a private, seasonal open-air…restaurant? I’m not sure how to describe someone who doesn’t bother with permits, inspections, worker’s comp, or any other nanny nonsense to run an eating establishment and make a little money for part of the year. There isn’t even a roof. But it makes my heart swell to support such an enterprise, and the food was to die for. F. graced us with her incredibly dangerous flourless chocolate torte with a raspberry/strawberry coulee, B. brought a wonderfully mustardy potato salad, and the grilled meat was as excellent as I remember. Later in the evening, someone undertook the Herculean task of herding us all into a group photo with a smattering of guns and birds raised, and one of Dull’Hawk’s “Time’s Up” flags.

Much of the day was spent getting laundry done and wandering around town with P.’s daughter. We’d been warned by P.’s wife that if we ventured up to the gulch, we’d be trapped into putting up the forms for the concrete walls being poured the next day. Whew—bullet dodged.

After laundry and errands, we gathered to watch fireworks from near the house P. used to be renting. It wasn’t of the scale of the shows wealthy folks around Lake Tapps put on every year, but for such a small town, I was impressed at the lengths to which a few residents went for a good show.

After the fireworks died off and everyone bugged out for bed, K. and I drove to Missoula in the middle of the night for food. After staying up ’til dawn just about every night, 11PM was just too early to fall asleep.

This was when it started to get seriously hot around Granite County. Near 100, if I recall correctly. K. and I wanted to see the concrete pouring, so we didn’t bother to shower in that heat and headed up to the gulch. Everyone had set up their chairs in the shade of the pines at the edge of the clearing. The whole thing didn’t get rolling for a couple of hours because the trucks were late, but I took plenty of pictures of P. up on the wall using the concrete vibrator, a source of much sophomoric toilet humor. It is utterly appropriate that the pumper truck had the word “schwing” painted on it.

Tired of sweating our asses off in that weather, we drove back down to town to shower so K. could get her tortilla soup dinner ready. After much herding of cats (again), we got dinner arranged upstairs, and enjoyed a particularly excellent meal. After K. and a local took off for the lake to look for beavers, the rest of us took up a particularly cheap game of Texas Hold ‘Em, a new one for me. My family plays poker often enough, but it’s always dealer choice. P.’s daughter managed to bluff her way into a winning particularly good pot from her father, and the highlight of the evening for me was cleaning P. out in one hand. His ego needed a knock down a peg or two…not that it’ll stay there.

After everyone left, I was far too awake to sleep (again), so I drove to Butte and back just listening to tunes. Butte has all their original mine shafts lit up in red lights at night, and the effect is particularly striking from a distance.

K. and I intended to get back to Gem Mountain to have our sapphires evaluated, and we were hoping to have lunch with E. in Three Forks, so we called to set things up, but couldn’t reach him. Out of the 20-25 sapphires I found, two were flawless and large enough to cut, totaling 2.20 carats. I suspect I’ll have them heat treated to clear up their cloudiness, but I kind of like the idea of having them set in jewelry while they’re still raw. There’s a woman over near the coast I met on an art walk not too long ago that designs and makes beautiful jewelry. Perhaps I’ll save up and see if she can fashion them into something I’d wear.

We tried reaching E. again afterwards without success, so we continued back to Butte to visit Montana Tech’s mineral museum. Holy crap it was hot in there! Not a lick of air conditioning in a room with 25-foot ceilings and far too many windows. For a while, I took pictures of the minerals I found interesting, but then it occurred to me that I should be photographing the minerals I don’t know, not the ones I do. And they had a nice selection, with some displays focusing on valuable types of rock commonly found in Montana.

Because we’d promised to help P. take down the forms that evening, we drove back to T.’s to pick up some stuff and change into work clothes and then headed up to the gulch. Because I’m still touchy about doing anything to damage the new vehicle, I hadn’t driven it up there yet, but gave it a shot that time. As P. put it, I popped its cherry. Handled great, and I didn’t bottom out once.

The weather had graced us with some cooling after another sweltering day, and taking down the forms went pretty fast once the person who didn’t want to work took off. (Oddly enough, this was the same person who made some rather rude comments about me not digging back on Day 3.) With six adults and two kids helping, we got it almost entirely done in about four and a half hours, with a few breaks in between. Towards the end we pulled K.’s car around to use the headlights so we could see. Much of the time we were rewarded with an impressive distant lightning display that the Rockies often provide in the summer.

Afterwards, we sat around in our greasy, filthy clothes and shot the shit. One by one, folks dropped out or passed out, and by three or so, P. and I were the only ones still awake enough not to wuss out on some early morning off-roading. Which is when MY defining moment of Montana that started this entry occurred. Looking at aerial imagery on Google Maps now, I think I’ve figured out where the hell we were, which wasn’t too far from the small lake we were looking for but never found.

We had a couple of mishaps along the way which left me covered in bruises and sore as hell, but I haven’t felt that alive in a long time. For the first time in a long while, I can honestly say I didn’t want to come home. Because the sun was up by the time I came down from the gulch, I didn’t bother sleeping. I just showered, packed, and left. But the latte I picked up in Missoula didn’t wake me up like I’d hoped, so I pulled off at the next rest area and napped for 45 minutes or so.

Now I’m just laundering the grease and dirt off my clothes and thinking of some changes to make and goals to meet in my life. A second home in Montana might be in there somewhere…