Jaci Dawn

We were all up and moving early on Monday, the 18th. It was still raining. Raining. Steady raining. Ugh, raining. Don wanted to go see Devil’s Tower, and it was low-ceiling clouds and raining. Still, we took a back road that was mercifully without traffic, and made our way out to Devil’s Tower, Wyoming.

We actually paid $20 to get closer, only to realize it was still raining and we could see it just as well from outside the National Monument boundary. We had to elbow our way through other tourists in the gift shop and duck under other people’s umbrellas (who uses an umbrella, anyway?). Hiking up the trail seemed a useless activity between the tourists, the umbrellas, and the rain. Photography was definitely out. BUT – we came, we saw, and we were impressed with the sheer magnitude of this strange tower in the midst of rolling hills and flatlands. Creation is amazing: erosion, glacial power, rock.

We wanted to get as far west as we could in one day. I made it to Bozeman before calling it quits. Five o’clock in the evening. In Bozeman. Bozeman has growing pains and a lack of traffic signals to deal with the amount of traffic that hits the pavement at quitting time. I took the first cheap motel and parked. We’d already agreed to not try camping in the rain in a tent with an inadequate rain fly, and sleeping in the car… well, been there, did that, had the crick in the neck to show for it (Don did).

There were a few brew pubs to choose from, but they all closed at 8PM (why?). However – and this is big – Bozeman is home to Montana Ale Works*. Montana Ale Works is a tap house in an old railroad station. The directions were simple, and we found it with no problem. The place was hopping and the wait was 25 minutes!

*I won’t add a link to their website as it is infected with spyware.

I did take a photo, but it was too blurry: the station house is long, every nook and cranny filled with tables, seats, benches, and wait staff balancing five or six plates overhead as they weave in and out of a clueless clientele. The bar is in the center, and every stool was filled. The noise level was too much for my HSP brain and I nearly turned around and left. Don, however, was intrigued and felt the wait was worth it, so we stayed.

We split a Kobe/Angus hamburger (vegetarian and vegan friends, avert your eyes):OMG. The best hamburger I have ever eaten. We tried two different beers, one in particular that impressed us was Kettlehouse Brewing’s ColdSmoke Scotch Ale.

We crossed the street to Heeb’s Grocery and found these:

We didn’t try the Jeremiah Johnson, but we did buy the Pig’s Ass Porter. It was very nice.

Yes, that’s a Feckin’ IPA in the middle. Feckin Brewery & Smokehouse is our favorite local small brewery & watering hole.

Don popped open a Pig’s Ass Porter in the motel room, but I put my head on the pillow and – boom! – didn’t wake up again until he shoved me over to get under the blankets. I wanted to sleep for a very long time…

Tuesday. We were up early, again, and on the road. We arrived in Missoula an hour before the Northside Brewery (Kettlehouse Brewing Co) opened. That gave us a little time to stretch our legs and explore the unique railroad crossings of Missoula. Missoula is a place that needs more time to visit than we had!

The Double Haul IPA (far right) was a tad too hoppy for me. The Fresh Bongwater Hemp Ale was an easy drink (I really wanted to get a T-Shirt regaling the virtues of bongwater, and I don’t smoke). Tick Czech Ale was a wonderful pun and nice sip. Eddy Out was good, too. Of course, we had a pint of the ColdSmoke Scotch Ale, and we bought a pint of whiskey-barrel aged ColdSmoke to bring home to a friend.

Kettlehouse Brewing has two locations – we went to the north (and secondary) location, which is in an old brick railroad warehouse. The floors are original plankwood, and the decor is a little rustic, and the wait staff is laid-back and friendly. No crowd here at noon on a Tuesday, but I bet the place is hopping at other times.

We switched up our travel plans in Missoula and took US 12 south to Lolo, where we turned west over Lolo Pass. It’s a two-lane with not a whole lot of traffic, and the western slopes of the Rockies descend slowly, steadily, and the highway follows the waters of the Lochsa River and the middle fork of the Clearwater. The country is full of history from Norman MacLean’s A River Runs Through it, and from my own family: my great uncle worked the Bitterroots as a Forest Service Ranger, my dad did a lot of youthful work in those mountains, and I remember a family trip along that very same highway sometime in the late 1960’s.

We lunched in Powell, Idaho, coasted on to Lewiston, and got lost once trying to find Hells Gate State Park. At least it wasn’t raining or even threatening to rain!

Paid $25 for a tent site, drove a mile out to the site only to discover that the campground host had forgotten to turn the sprinklers off and the <expletive> site was flooded. Of course, the host was absent, so we had to drive back down to the Visitor’s Center to change campsite designation. The result was we got a really nice spot on the edge of the park, away from most of the other campers.

At dusk, the magic happened. I’d already put my camera away as it was too dark to photograph, so there are no photos.

One owl rose from the shadows of the cottonwoods, followed by another. Silent flight, on wings broad, they began lazy circles just above the trees. Then another ghostly owl joined, and another. They circled above the heads of clueless campers, with noiseless wing strokes. They clicked in chirping staccato: echo locating insects and small prey. Occasionally, one owl would utter a short, rasping, screech. Six owls, six circles of flight, dipping into and out of the cottonwoods. Barn owls, all. Late into the night, we could hear them overhead, chirping and screeching as they hunted. It was the last magic act of our road trip.