ANOTHER HOT SPRING IS JUST DOWN THE ROAD

SUMMER 2007 WESTERN ROAD TRIP:
ANOTHER HOT SPRING IS JUST DOWN THE ROAD

After meticulously recording the story of the first four days our trip from Boston to San Anselmo, California in my semi-immortal prose, I managed to leave my notebook on the flight from Oakland to Salt Lake City. Despite several pleas to Southwest Airlines, the notebook has not surfaced.
Thus, the following account may not have the immediacy of the original version, but it represents my best shot.
The much advertised “extra legroom” on JetBlue planes is true. On our non-stop flight from Boston to Oakland, California, our window and aisle seats on the left side of the plane, near the front, were quite comfortable. What I hadn’t anticipated was my seat companion on the window - a five foot tall young lady weighing at least 350 pounds.
She overspread her seat, making my every move a very cautious one, as mounds of flesh extended in all directions. The poor young lady ate almost continuously from the time we took off, crunching M&Ms and a variety of morsels from her handbag, which I picked up for her on the several occasions she couldn’t bend over far enough to get it.
Aside from that, the flight was uneventful, and on time.
Knowing there would be no dinner on the flight which left at 7:45 p.m., Carol had thoughtfully prepared a healthy meal of borscht, salad and fruit. Unfortunately, the borscht was confiscated by the ubiquitous TSA employees, as an impermissible liquid.
I hope they enjoyed it.
We were on our way to visit Carol’s daughter Tami, and her family. Tami Miller Vasquez, her husband Edmundo, and teenage children Julia and Jacob, live in San Anselmo, in Marin County, north of San FRancisco. They were flooded out of their home in the flood of 2005.
According to Wikipedia, “Heavy rains caused the creek to flood in 1982, as well as recently on December 31, 2005. Significant creek flooding occurs in San Anselmo every 20-23 years, in 1940, 1963, 1982 and in 2005. 1982 was the worst, with up to 5 feet of rapidly moving water traveling down the main street. 2005 was only 2-3 feet. Traditionally after the flood, the town cleans up, changes little in building codes to mitigate water damage in new construction and remodels in the affected flood plain area and waits another 20 years.”
Tami and Edmundo chose to refurbish the house, which had about two feet of water on the first floor, and to raise the house itself four feet in the process. Landscaping remains to be done, but the interior itself is much improved. Carol and I were seeing the reconstruction for the first time.
We arrived on a Thursday evening, as Tami was getting Jacob ready to depart early Saturday morning for a month in Barcelona, studying Spanish, as his sister had done a year ago.
By mid-afternoon on Friday, Tami had finished what needed doing, and with the rest of the family occupied, Tami, Carol and I drove northwest to Point Reyes Station, a small town which is the gateway to Point Reyes National Seashore, and which retains the frontier flavor of its origin as a railway junction in the early days of the the 20th century.
Sir Francis Drake landed on a beach in the area in 1579, on his voyage around the world. Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, running from Tiburon to Point Reyes National Seashore, is among the many commemorative designations which celebrate his landing.
Tami had been there often, and we ran into several of her friends as we wandered around the few streets in the village.
Saturday, once Jacob was safely on his way to Spain, we drove south to Tiburon, sited at the north end of San Francisco Bay. Here, ferries leave frequently for the city as well as for Angel Island, less than a mile to the south. Having missed the hourly ferry to Angel Island, we opted for the San Francisco ferry which docked at the Ferry Building, where we debarked into an astonishing array of restaurants, bistros, cheese shops, bakeries, and assorted food emporiums. Carol and Tami did the heavy investigation, while I sat in the sun, which finally came out of the fog after playing hide and seek with the city most of the day.
After a superb Thai lunch, we took the ferry to Angel Island, for a tour by tram of the site of an army hospital, a prisoner of war camp in World War II, and the West Coast version of Ellis Island. In the 1920’s, when the door was closed by the United States to immigration from the Far East, only family members of Asians already in the country were allowed in - and Angel Island was where they were held while each case was investigated.
The island is now a state park, with a myriad of activities, and frequent ferry service from both Tiburon and San Francisco. We barely scraped the surface, and the place deserves a couple of days of exploration. It’s history includes its use by Native Americans, and Spanish occupation in the 17th and 18th centuries.

Sunday, Tami, Carol and I drove north again, but this time, I dropped them off in the hills above Stinson Beach, a resort south of Point Reyes, at about one thirty in the afternoon. The idea was for them to hike down a trail, four and one half miles, to Stinson Beach, where I would be waiting for them.
Tami estimated the walk would be about two hours, and we agreed that I would wait at the general store in Stinson Beach.
I found the store with no difficulty, - the town has only one of anything - got out my book, and settled down for a couple of peaceful hours, with occasional glances at the California girls, who were so poor they could only afford tiny strips of fabric for bathing suits.
At three thirty, I spoke with a county sheriff’s deputy - Stinson Beach has no police force and a volunteer fire department - who was on traffic duty. He assured me that the trail leading down to Stinson Beach (which I mistakenly thought they had taken) was very popular, and would have lots of hikers on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. “Not to worry”.
At about four forty-five, with no word, I decided to call 911, got the sheriff’s office which connected me to the Forest Service, and told them my tale. After hearing they would send out an alert for the two hikers, I settled down to wait.
At about five thirty, my cell phone rang. It was Tami - they had lost the trail (which was a fire road rather than a trail). They had been forced retrace their steps to their starting place, the first place which had service for her cell phone.
I called the Forest Service with the news, and started off to pick them up. A few miles up the mountain, at a Forest Service garage, several men in two trucks were in conversation.
Either by brains or luck, I pulled into the parking lot, and found them talking about us. One of them was sure he knew where they were, based on my less than perfect description of where I had let them off.
He took off to that location. I was sure he was going in the wrong direction, and stubbornly decided to set off again on my own. The second ranger said, “We already have two people lost. I am going to follow you to make sure we don’t have a third.”
Within five minutes, I became aware that I was traversing an area I hadn’t seen before, and shortly, the ranger tailing me honked, pulled over, and told me they had been found.
Much chagrined, I followed him for a few miles, realized that I had completely missed a vital turn in the road, and was happily reunited with Carol and Tami.
Lesson to be learned: identify in very specific terms - names of roads and intersections - the starting place, with sufficient information to get back to it. My nonchalance was my undoing. I apologized profusely to the rangers, whose attitude was very forgiving, and an indication to me that my kind of behavior was not an unusual occurrence.
We celebrated the happy outcome with broiled oysters at a recommended restaurant in Olemah, a tiny town in the area. Our conclusion: better to eat ‘em raw with sauce and horseradish.

Monday morning, Southwest Airlines took us to Salt Lake City, where we picked up a rental car and headed north. We had chosen Lava Hot Springs, Idaho, as our destination the first night, and checked out the bed and breakfasts on the Internet.
No one could tell us where our first choice was located, and the proprietor was in a yoga class and unavailable. The second choice was in the center of town, and not very prepossessing. Carol went to check out the rooms, and came back with a doubtful expression on her face.
We were parked behind a fence, on the other side of which was a hot springs pool at least one hundred feet by twenty, with several smaller pools - one with hotter water, the other with cold water. On the left was an institutional looking building which was the b and b.
In an earlier life, we learned, it had been a rest home for injured veterans of World War I; then, a community hospital run by a couple, both of whom were doctors; and finally, in the 1980’s, when the town’s population had shrunk to the point where the hospital could not longer be supported, it had become a bed and breakfast.
The room we were shown was large and clean if somewhat meagerly furnished. At one end was an alcove - without a door - in which sat a toilet and opposite it was a jacuzzi tub.
Despite the unusual features of the place, we decided it would suffice.
There were few other visitors - our room was the only one of about six on our end of the floor that was occupied. After dinner at one of the town’s two restaurants, we tried the hot spring.
We learned the water originates in an artesian well, and is about 140 degrees Fahrenheit when it reached the lodge. Diluting it with cold water keeps the pool temperature about 110.
The spring is also the source of heating for the place, with multiple plastic pipes in each room replacing radiators or vents. The showers and drinking water come from the same source.
The pool appears to have some characteristics of social club. Half a dozen middle-aged men were in the shallow end for what appeared to be a nightly congregation where, I suspect, the town’s affairs were conducted.
The owner made and served breakfast the next morning, providing us with a little of the history of the place.

The Greyhouse bed and breakfast is twelve miles south of Salmon, Idaho, a Victorian mansion that had been moved from Salmon, where it had once served as hospital (we were getting into a rut). Victorian was the theme of the furnishings as well, with a profusion of Victorian hats, lamps photos, etchings and a wild and unorganized assortment of knickknacks.
Sharon, the co-owner with her husband - he was not visible - is the archetype of a pleasant, motherly b and b hostess, The house sits a few hundred feet from the Salmon River, on which her son runs rafting trips.
At least in the parts we saw, the Salmon does not appear to be a serious white water river - but the scenery is wonderful. We got to Greyhouse about six in the evening, after a very long day on the road, following the river up from Lava Hot Springs,
We had taken a wide detour from Lava Hot Springs to see Craters of the Moon National Monument, the creation of thousands of year of volcanic eruptions that spewed cinders and lava over a wide area.
Carol had seen it forty-five years ago, and remembered it as much less raked over and smoothed out.
Our route entered the Sawtooth National Recreation Area, with beautiful woods and streams, and very little man-made interference except for the roads. There was far less traffic than I would have expected. My speculation that tourism is down this year - gas prices? - was confirmed later in the trip by inn owners who were experiencing a lean season.
We headed north again, out of the Area, surrounded by mountains, and it was here, late in the day, with the sun behind us, shining on the mountains, that I understood “purple mountain majesties” - because the mountains rising on each side of the highway were indeed purple in the late afternoon light.
With the light traffic, the typical car was cruising at well over the 75 m.p.h. speed limit on major roads. Even secondary roads are posted at 65 m.p.h. Our slower travel made it politically wise to pull over into a layby occasionally to let faster traffic pass on the narrower highways.
The river was no more crowded than the highway - we saw only several pairs of kayakers and two eight-person rafts.

Wednesday was to be our slow day. It began at a leisurely breakfast at which I refused the offer of french toast - forsaking it for poached eggs on toast.
Sharon said several times, “But we have french toast!” Evidently I was missing a special treat and she was clearly not very happy with me.
As is usually the case in bed and breakfasts, the conversation with other guests begins: “Where are you from?” “Wow, that’s a long way from here. Did you drive all the way?”
Once the locality exchanges take place, the conversation tends to lag. However, a boy of twelve or thirteen at our table asked Carol, “What did you do for a living?”
She considered it an unusual question from a youngster, but answered it without much elaboration. When I thought about it, it seemed he had probably heard the same question asked by his parents - and asking it himself established his bona fides as a seasoned traveler.
After breakfast, we loaded up and spent an hour walking about Salmon, which has 3012 people and at least twice as many retail establishments as Lexington. It is a center for river and forest activities, as well as for the ranchers and farmers in the area.
After lunch in the town of North Fork, we headed east, crossing the Great Divide at Chief Joseph's Pass, and then heading down slope to the site of the near-final chapter in the history of the Nez Perce Native Americans’ struggle to maintain their way of life.
At the Battle of Big Hole, the Nez Perce decisively defeated the U.S. Army troops, only to be pursued and driven north by that same army.
The Nez Perce were trying to avoid being herded onto a reservation in what is now Idaho. They were desperately trying to reach sanctuary in Canada - and about 150 finally made it.
Chief Joseph. with the remaining band of women and sick children and his few remaining warriors, finally surrendered and were put on reservations, where they survive to this day.
Chief Joseph’s words are remembered to this day, as he ended his last speech, "Hear me, my chiefs. I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands I will fight no more, forever."
The government erected a monument in 1883 to the Army soldiers who died at Big Hole - but the Native Americans didn’t get the same treatment until recently.
At the battle field site, the movie depicting the battle and the fate of the Nez Perce affected both Carol and I deeply - we spent the rest of the day in a state of depression, brought on by the realization once again of the incredible cruelty inflicted on Native Americans throughout our country’s history.
By four in the afternoon we had reached Jackson, Montana, a wide place in the road. with 232 residents. It featured a garage, which appeared to specialize in farm and ranch machinery; a barroom, open on weekends: a “mercantile store” which was essentially a deli; an antique store; and our destination. the Jackson Hot Springs Lodge.
Clearly, an architect had never been allowed with a mile of the place. But despite its failings as an example of well-designed western style, it had a hot springs pool, 75’ by 25’. As with the inn at Lava Hot Springs, the water, which came from a well nine miles from the lodge, was used for washing, dining and heating.
The pool was being refilled - it is drained weekly - but there was enough water after dinner for Carol to get wet.
The pretentious restaurant at the lodge, with the only alternative a sandwich at the deli, managed to combine mediocre food with high prices. But a morning dip in the now filled pool restored our good humor - until I went to start the car and found the battery dead.
The previous evening, in closing up the car, I had inadvertently hit the alarm button on the remote control, sending the horn blaring and the lights flashing. I eventually got the horn to cease wailing but could not douse the lights.
Foolishly, I assumed they would stop on their own.

And they did - at 2:06 a.m. when the the battery died, as evidenced by the dashboard clock.
The garage across the street was kind enough to send a truck with jumper cables to immediately get us going. The man who brought them refused any compensation, a not unusual response in the West.
(We had ordered a compact car from National but were given a full size - it was a Montana registered car that the company as sending towards home from Salt Lake City. It had a keyless starting system I hadn’t seen before. Get in the car using the remote to unlock the car, press a button on the dash with a foot on the brake and voila! - a keyless start!)
Without further problems, we drove on through Dillon, Twin Bridges, Sheraton, Virginia City, Nevada City and Ennis (home of the now famous house that Mara designed for Fred Goldberg).
By four thirty, we had picked up one of Mara’s cars at the farm on Cobb Hill Road, returned our rental to the Bozeman Airport at Belgrade, picked up some groceries, and were napping when Mara got home about six.
The place has been altered substantially since we last visited in June 2006. Mara has performed extraordinary effects with the property, both in the main house and in the “cabin”.
The cabin, designed for vacation rentals,- now with two bedrooms, a new kitchen, new furnishings throughout, high end linens and towels, and gorgeous lighting - will have its first month long tenant beginning the day after we left.
The main house is air conditioned, for which we were grateful after several days of 100 degree heat. With Mara busy with appointments on Friday, we were happy enough to flake out and recover after four days on the road, in very hot weather.
People we talked with on the way indicated that the extreme temperatures in the high ‘90s were unusual for such an extended period. Fortunately for lawns and farms, there seems to be no serious water shortage in Western Montana, with plenty of water for irrigation.
Some other areas of Montana are not so fortunate, with water restrictions in place.
Mara’s farm on Cobb Hill Road is about as far from downtown Bozeman you can get and still be in the city limits. The road past the house has been paved since we were here last, cutting down on the noise and dust created by the former gravel surface. The three and one half acre plot sits about a half mile from the main road south to Big Sky Resort and the Gallatin River Valley.
In addition to the main house and the cabin, there is a smaller building which will eventually be a one-bedroom guest house. Next to the cabin, there is a long low building now used as a workshop and for storage.
There are several paddocks enclosed with jack fencing (horizontal poles held in place at each end by a pair of X-crossed poles), and a weather shelter for the horses which once occupied the paddocks, along with the tack room.
The main house has a deck on all four sides, with a step or two to the lawn, which is shaded by a grove of tall cottonwood trees.
Mara’s original thought had been to lease the paddocks to horse owners looking for space, but with vacationing tenants coming to the cabin, that concept has been put on hold. Non-horse people might find the odors off-putting.
The land looks south to mountains and north to mountains. Less than 15 minutes brings you to downtown Bozeman, but the feeling is completely rural.

Friday evening we had dinner in Bozeman with Lark Smotherman, the professional photographer who has done pictures of most of Mara’s projects, and whose work can be seen on Mara’s website.
We learned that Lark has taken a position as Artistic Director of a major international advertising firm. It gives her a measure of financial security she needs at this point, but her leaving later this fall to live in San Antonio will deprive Mara of a very good friend.

Saturday morning, we drove north to Helena, stopping for lunch there and then driving on to The Gates of The Mountains, an opening in the mountains seen and named by Lewis and Clark.
“It was mid-July, 1805, when Captain Meriwether Lewis first viewed the Gates of the Mountains along Montana's Missouri River. His journal entry describes the scene this way: "we entered the most remarkable clifts that we have yet seen. These clifts rise from the water's edge on either side perpendicularly to the height of 1,200 feet. Solid rock for the distance of 5 miles." This view is still available for today's adventurer and it looks virtually the same as when Capt. Lewis and his Corps of Discovery first laid eyes upon it.”
Tour boats now leave from a dock on a lake at the Hilger Ranch and travel downstream through the canyon. The lake, formed by a dam, has a marina and appeared to be a popular boating area.
The Hilger Ranch, on the south side of the Gates and on the west side of river, has been preserved and protected from development since it was established in the 1850’s, and the present owner appears to adhere to the same philosophy.
The boat trip took us past campgrounds maintained by the Bureau of LAnd Management and the Forest Service, most accessible only by water. The cliffs enclosing the river are spectacular, and for the first time on the trip, my camera was out and working.
With us was Chere Jiusto, executive director of Montana Preservation Alliance, the organization of which Mara has been president and is now treasurer. As its title indicates, it is “working to preserve historic resources and places in Montana through education, advocacy, technical assistance, awards and partnerships with like-minded preservation groups.”
The tour took us past Mann Gulch, the site of the 1949 forest fire that claimed the lives of 12 fire jumpers, trapped in a box canyon when the fire exploded. The story was told in a book called “Young Men and Fire” by Norman MacLean, the author of “A River Runs Through It”.
I had read the book many years ago, and have never forgotten the story of the 15 elite jumpers who parachuted into the gulch. Ten were dead within an hour of the drop and two more died the next day. Only three survived, scarred for the rest of their lives by the experience.
On a bright sunny day, with scarcely a cloud in the sky, it was difficult - actually, impossible - to look up the canyon from the water and imagine what happened nearly sixty years ago.

Saturday evening, Mara’s friends, Les and Margie Reeves had us as their guests for dinner, along with Les’ son and daughter-in-law. Designing the interior of their home in an up-scale development on the south side of Bozeman had been one of Mara’s first jobs, and she formed a friendship with the couple that has continued.
The Reeves had come to Lexington earlier this summer on their way to a sailing trip in Maine, and we had given them lunch.

Bozeman has continued to grow commercially and residentially, but sitting on the deck that runs on all four sides of Mara’s main house on a quiet Sunday afternoon, none of that activity impinged on the our vision.
The heat and the forest fires in the general area made for a good deal of haze. The mountains to the south, in the direction of Yellowstone Park, were barely visible.
Sunday night, our last evening, was spent with Mara’s friend and across-the-road neighbor, Lynne and her husband, the real estate broker who found the property for Mara. Lynne’s contagious sense of humor made the evening go all too fast.
In a state of great contentment, I said, “We are coming for a month next year.” I suspect Mara wrote it down to hold me to it.

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