THE WEST REALLY IS DIFFERENT

THE WEST REALLY IS DIFFERENT

June, 2006. On the third day of our visit to Montana, we found ourselves in Ennis, 50 miles southwest of Bozeman, on the Madison River. (The Madison is one of the three rivers that come together west of Bozeman to form the Missouri.)

Mara has designed a house for a client on a two hundred acre site near Ennis, and is deeply involved in the construction and furnishing of the place. She came to work and we came to watch.

Ennis is a fly-fishing center, with just under 800 permanent residents but a very lively main street, and a killer gourmet restaurant catering to the well-heeled fly fisherman who come in from all over the country.

With Mara totally absorbed in her project, we went off on our own, driving south on Saturday, running parallel to the Madison until we met its source - two lakes, one formed by a man-made dam and the other, Quake Lake, the result of an earth slippage during a 1959 earthquake.

Our Montana map showed a wild life refuge to the west of the lakes, allegedly the home of a flock of rare trumpeter swans, and other assorted birds and beasts. We followed the road around Henry’s Lake , bending west on Highway 287 - which quickly became a gravel road.

For the next twenty-five miles we drove slowly over a well-graded but shoulderless road, going due west into a broad valley, with mountains on both sides, and a long lake in the center. Aside from the road and some fencing, there were no signs of civilization. Perhaps three other vehicles passed us going in the opposite direction.

The trumpeter swans could be seen on the lake, but they were too far away to be heard. A large coyote crossed the road, as well as the ubiquitous gophers that want their share of every gravel road we traveled.

I managed to avoid killing any as they crossed and recrossed, but other drivers hadn’t - we saw dozens of tiny corpses in our travels.

Twenty-five miles into the valley sits a small community, the site of the headquarters of the reservation. To our chagrin, it was closed for the weekend - which makes good sense, I guess. Why be available for times when tourists are likely to show up to bother the rangers?

A little frustrated - we had used up our water - and attacked by insects the moment we opened the car doors, we started back, stopping at a state campground which boasted a spring with delicious cool water.

With twelve miles of gravel road to go, I heard the dreaded flapping sound of a tire which had lost its air. Pulling over to the side of the two-lane, shoulderless road, I looked at the very large, very flat left rear tire on the very large SUV I had rented.

When I opened the rear door, the spare was not readily apparent, and I was standing in some bafflement, when a pickup truck pulled up, driven by a twenty-something young man, out for a Saturday drive with his grandmother.

He asked if I needed any help. He quickly found the spare beneath the floor of the cargo space, got it out - no small task - and proceeded to change the tire, refusing to accept anything but thanks. In the meantime, Carol struck up a conversation with the grandmother, which ended with an exchange of addresses.

Since the spare was a brand new full size tire,I wasn’t terribly concerned about getting back to Ennis, where I expected I would find a garage and get the flat fixed.

What I hadn’t reckoned with was Saturday afternoon, on July 4th weekend. A series of calls by a very helpful woman in a florist shop where we stopped produced no help. After calling the rental agency, it was clear that I would have to return to the Bozeman airport and get another car, keeping my fingers crossed about another flat.

But another niggling worry cropped up. A light on the dashboard indicated low pressure in a tire. The local gas station was open, and had free air - but no gauge on the hose. While I was standing there with a worried look, another Montanan materialized to ask if he could help.

Taking a tire gauge from his truck, he proceeded to check my tires, actually bleeding air from the over inflated spare. Again, just “thank you” was all he would accept.

The “friendly” West may be a cliché, but in our experien ce it really exists.
Finally, today we returned to Mara’s new house from doing errands in town to find a home made rhubarb pit sitting at the back door with a note to Mara, from a neighbor, welcoming her to the community.

Case closed.

A TRULY SMALL TOWN

Saturday afternoon, we drove with Mara west from Ennis through the historic goldrush towns of Virginia City and Nevada City, and through Alder to Laurin.

Lark and Chuck Smotherman had invited us for dinner at their home, a renovated and modernized 1906 brick school house.

The Smothermans travel extensively in the course of their work. Lark is a professional photographer, specializing in homes inside and out, and Chuck is a food and wine writer. Their recommendations for lodging and restaurants in Paris had been excellent, and we had looked forward to meeting them.

Set on the banks of the Ruby River, Laurin (pronounced ‘Laray’ locally) was founded in 1863 by a French entrepreneur and fur trapper named Laurin, and at one time was a thriving commercial center.

Within a hundred yards of the Smotherman’s home is the Catholic church, St. Mary of Assumption, built by Laurin of stone, with a richly furnished interior and beautiful stained glass windows. Services are still held, and attract a wide-spread congregation.

Most of the eight or ten houses surrounding the tiny green were built in the French Gothic tradition, decidedly unwestern in appearance. Some are seasonal, and some house Laurin’s TEN permanent residents (including the Smothermans). As might be expected, the Smothermans knew all of the three or four people we met on our post-dinner stroll around town.