Fishermen Tell No Lies

It's true. We fishermen tell no lies. Of course, we skirt the truth quite a bit, too, so there must be a big, gray, middle area somewhere in our lexicon and way of thinking.

That being said, before car troubles spooked this whole trip like a poorly presented cast spooks a wary trout, I had me some major plans to fish the West. The Gunnison River. The Flathead. The Clark Fork. The Yellowstone. The Madison. Well, the car started acting up before we reached the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, so a drive down to the river became a moot point. I fished the North Fork of the Flathead with Paul a couple times, but didn't see the Middle Fork or South Fork except from a rental car, really. And the other rivers? It's hard to fish when your mind is on figuring out how to get home.

Primarily, I drowned some flies on the North Fork of the Flathead and out on Spoon Lake, behind the cabin we stayed in with Paul and Melissa and Zadie. And I'm happy that I had some luck.

I caught a total of about eight fish, and each one was a Westslope Cutthroat Trout. The beautiful illustration above by Joseph R. Tomelleri shows one of these fish in its spawning colors. The ones I caught were not nearly so vibrant, but each bore the telltale red slash under its gills, as well as other signs it was a Westslope Cutthroat. And each one made me happy beyond belief. And each one was released back into the wild, alive, and treated as gently as possible.

I caught six out on the river (four in one brief span), and two on the lake (these were the largest, the last one caught on our last night at the cabin was about 14 inches). And not once did I have my camera with me.

But this is all truth. No lies. If I were going to lie about it, I'd tell you I caught 14 each day, some weighing in at four pounds. And I did it with perfectly executed 70 yard casts against the wind. I'd tell you my hand-tied flies fooled even the most finicky of old cutts, and that several other fly fishermen along the river asked me for guidance.

Truth is, I caught just a few. They were not large. My 40 yard casts were sloppy. The wind knocked my flies all over the river. I bought crappy flies from the local fly shop, all of which unraveled after some use. And the only fly fisherman on the river asking my advice was Paul, who listened to my b*llsh*t as if it were gospel. Thanks, Paul.

But more than fishing all those rivers out West, my primary fishing goal on this trip was to catch a Westslope Cutt. I achieved that goal. And I have my good friend Paul as a witness to that.

Trying to Reconcile with Pennsylvania

Photo: The Tobester above Logan Pass, Glacier National Park, Montana

I feel bad. I really do. Back in July, which seems like years ago, I made some disparaging comments about Pennsylvania. You may remember them. You may even remember that I touted the likes of Missouri over the Keystone State. And I meant it. Can't say I have it in me to change my opinion right now, but I have been left feeling sorta sorry about what I did say.

So that got me to thinking. And when I get to thinking, well, not much good can come of it. In fact, when I get to thinking, one of three outcomes is possible: 1.) I'll get even more negative about something I'm already feeling negative about. 2.) I'll be up all night and not get enough sleep and wake up ornery. Or 3.) I'll invade Russia from the West and fail to supply my troops with enough adequate winter gear for when they become bogged down in the autumn mud on the approach to Moscow.

Wait. That wasn't me. That was Napoleon. Or was it Hitler? Anyway, who cares? I'll bet neither of those guys had much good to say about Pennsylvania either.

No. I got to thinking about the home of the Phillies, the Steelers, and Cheesesteak. And when I got to thinking about Cheesesteak, I got to thinking about something good. Something delicious. Something mouthwatering. Something that has some redeeming value (except for all the clogged arteries, stained shirts, and endless debate about where to get the best).

So here are a few things I like about Pennsylvania and one thing I hope to like about Pennsylvania some day soon:

• Cheesesteak
• The Steelers
• Eat'n Park
• Trout Waters

That last one is the one I hope to find out about real soon.

But now that I look at my list, I wonder what happened to all those good things I considered as we drove through Pennsylvania in the rain on Monday. There seemed to be so many more things. So I just popped on over to Google and here are a few more items to list among the Pros of Pennsylvania:

• Daniel Boone
• Rachel Carson
• Bill Cosby
• Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey
• Gene Kelly
• Tara Lipinski (nah, just kidding)
• Margaret Mead and Tom Mix (salute!)
• Man Ray
• Andrew Wyeth
• Jimmy Stewart

Of course, I should also point out the whole thing about the Constitution being written there blah blah blah as well as the Declaration of Independence blah blah blah and Lincoln delivering his address at Gettysburg blah blah blah. But these three things had little to do with Pennsylvania (well, ok, Lincoln's Danbury Address would have lacked some oomph). Really, Jefferson could have written his stuff in Schenectady and we'd all still be free, happy Americans.

But let's all raise a cheer for Pennsylvania's State Fish, the Brook Trout. Hip hip hooray! And it has two whole counties without traffic lights (because no one stops at intersections?). On the downside, the state has 50 lakes and 2,500 man-made lakes. What's up with that?

And for you gourmands, please note that Pennsylvania leads the United States in scrapple production. Mmmmm mmmmmm (barf). Yes, I know. Spam. I love Spam. But Spam is not scrapple. I'll spample Spam, but I refuse to sample scrapple. Again I say, "Barf."

Residents of Idaho take note: Pennsylvania claims to lead the country in Potato Chip production. When the chips are made of scrapple, watch out, America.

I'll wrap up here with one more shining example of the greatness which can flourish in the cesspool that is Pennsylvania, proving that the most beautiful flowers are born in the stinkiest gardens: Fred Rogers. Sainthood cannot come too soon for the late Mr. Rogers, tireless educator of people (not just children) and tireless proponent of Public Television and this country's need for it.

The following excerpt from Wikipedia tells all:

In 1969, Rogers appeared before the United States Senate Subcommittee on Communications. His goal was to support funding for PBS and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, in response to significant proposed cuts. In about five minutes of testimony, Rogers spoke of the need for social and emotional education that public television provided. He passionately argued that alternative television programming like his Neighborhood helped encourage children to become happy and productive citizens, sometimes opposing less positive messages in media and in popular culture. He even recited the lyrics to one of his songs.

The chairman of the subcommittee, John O. Pastore, was not previously familiar with Rogers' work, and was sometimes described as gruff and impatient. However, he reported that the testimony had given him goosebumps, and declared, "Looks like you just earned the $20 million." The subsequent congressional appropriation, for 1971, increased PBS funding from $9 million to $22 million.

Thank you, Pennsylvania, for Fred Rogers. Looks like I owe you at least a small apology.

Now let's talk about Rocky Balboa. (barf)

Some Bears Have All The Luck

Imagine having your own country. You'd be the boss. You'd get to eat whatever you want. You get to go to the bathroom where and when you want. You answer to no one. Everyone else looks out for you. At Logan Pass at the top of Glacier National Park, if you're a grizzly bear, you get your own country. I imagine having your own country also means you can leave the toilet seat up if you want and if someone doesn't like it? Well, you're a grizzly, what are they gonna do?

Corny, of course.

America, stop messing with me. You, too, Mitchell, South Dakota! This ain't no palace. It's an auditorium. With corn nailed to the outside walls. There's no king inside, no prince or duke or queen. Just some vaguely miserable-looking people selling popping corn and t-shirts, corn cob trays and baseball caps. There's no throne room, but there is a basketball court and the promise of some good, second-tier country music outfits coming to town. And yet, I find I cannot look away. This was my second visit to THE PALACE and I shall go again, I'm sure. If you find yourself on I-90 in Mitchell, you know you'll stop there, too.

Watch It, Pal

What's the Spam Can doing to Stuart? And why is the Tobester so amused? It's all innocent, of course. Because this is the Spam Museum in Austin, Minnesota, home of the Hormel Foods Company.

The Spam Museum is a must-see. From your first spample of Spam to your last dollar spent on Spam merchandise, this place is another example of what America is all about.

Lies and deceit. Because Spam is not ham. Heck, Spam is barely even a food. Yet we love it. Oh, how we love it so! And the people who work there? They are such Spam devotees (and company people to boot) they resist any attempt to wink or nod at the joke that is Spam. Go to England and try to get one of those guards in the silly fuzzy hats outside Buckingham Palace to smile or crack up. They don't. Neither do the employees of the Spam Museum admit that, hey, maybe Spam is kinda silly. And a whole museum dedicated to it? Sillier.

Oh well. Go when you get a chance. For now, go eat your Spamburger and leave me alone.

The End is Just the Beginning

Our journey is over. Yet our story is not.

We returned to Tyngsborough, MA, last night or early this morning, depending on how you look at it. It's Tuesday now, August 21, Elliot's birthday. We are home, H. is at work, and so am I. There's a car out in the driveway that served as our home for three weeks, except when it was in the infirmary in Kalispell.

I still have stories to tell you, so keep coming back for a while, won't ya?

(photo, l - r): Stuart, Heather, Elliot, the Tobester, and Me at Mt. Rushmore, Saturday, August 18th. Note the leering old men in the background. Obviously they're checking out the wife. We heard catcalls.

All Good Things

Like the passengers in steerage on the Titanic, Montana had to be left behind while the women and children made a safe getaway. So where does that leave me? Well, I guess someone had to row the lifeboat.

At long last, we escaped Montana on Friday morning. Waking at 4 a.m. and on the road before 4:45, we rolled southward on Route 93 to Missoula in the predawn darkness, blanketed by the smoke of half a dozen forest fires. The transmission worked seamlessly, and the boys slept in their car seats. At Missoula, we slipped onto I-90 East and - gulp - what was that? Check Engine light? A vague hesitation in the transmission? Turn the car around! Get back to Missoula before getting stuck in the middle of nowhere, halfway to Butte.

We spent about 90 minutes at Mountain Imports in Missoula, where a certified Volvo technician with over 30 years' experience gave our car the once-over, hooked her up to the computer, diagnosed the hesitation and drip from under the car and . . . and . . . and . . . pronounced us healthy. Phew! Sure, we have two misfiring speed sensors (cause for the hesitation) and a non-functioning catalytic converter, but everything else seemed okay.

Result? I am writing from Rapid City, South Dakota. We put over 800 miles between us and Kalispell yesterday. We said our goodbyes to Montana, its smoke, its car woes, and its serene beauty. We included a stop at the Little Bighorn National Memorial, too, but mostly spent the day making those tracks we had so desperately sought to make for days. H. bought Wyoming postcards and a Sturgis, SD t-shirt to celebrate our ultimate release from the bonds of Montana. We were all smiles watching the antelope of Wyoming out the car windows

The gang is asleep now. And I should be too. We rolled into Rapid City about 9 p.m. and hit the indoor pool/water park, followed by a late dinner in our room. In the morning, not too early, we'll slip down to Mount Rushmore, then onto Wall Drug, the Badlands, and Mitchell, for the Corn Palace.

The car is running well. We are all overcome with a desire to get home.

And now, without much fanfare, and as the S.S. Titanic slips once more under the icy Atlantic waves, I bid you a warm goodnight. More to come tomorrow.

I Am Here to Entertain You

Elliot "Smiley LaRue" Savelle. Desperado. Likes: Milk, meat sticks, crawling, restaurant waitstaff. Dislikes: Used car seats, cold mornings, Fox News. Dangerous outlaw, consider to be armed and stinky (usually filling a diaper as we pass the last rest area for 48 miles).

The Good Times Do, In Fact, Roll

Bon Ton Roulet: The Gang at Mammoth Hot Springs, Yellowstone National Park, this past Tuesday (Aug. 14). You can almost smell the sulfur from your hard drive, no?

People Say We Monkey Around. . .

Dateline: Kalispell, Montana. Thursday, August 16, 2007. 11:30 p.m. Mountain Time.

Ta-da!

And the Lord God Volvo said, "Let there be gears." And they were good. At least, we hope. For the work on the Volvo was completed around 5 o'clock this afternoon. Too late to make a break for South Dakota, naturally, and too late to test the new transmission on the route from Kalispell to Missoula, through a half dozen new wildfires. John at Celtic Motors beseeched us to wait until the light of a new day to test the new transmission.

Where am I? Back in the La Quinta Inn, of course. In fact, we got the last room they had. And it is the same one from last night. Bizarro.

Tomorrow (well, in about 5 hours) we leave before dawn, to make tracks, as it were. To get the hell out of Montana already. Gee, we love it here, but, enough is enough.

This morning we finally ascended the Going To The Sun Road in Glacier National Park (which we had attempted twice last week) and arrived at Logan Pass, some 6,000 plus feet up there at the Continental Divide. And do you know, we have crossed said divide so many times on this trip that it has become anticlimactic? True fact. Not only that, but we have done it at far greater heights (which is probably what blew the transmission to begin with).

At the Logan Pass visitor center, we hiked about a mile up above the tree line, saw marmots and ground squirrels and mountain goats, and then came back down. It was a trek, to be sure, since H. had Elliot on her back and I had the Tobester on my shoulders. But it was worth it, as we encountered our first batch of alpine air, devoid of the smoke that clouds most of this state and makes it stink like last night's cozy fire.

We were back in Kalispell about 2-ish, to learn the car was not yet ready. We killed time. We killed more time. We killed Time yet again (first degree manslaughter, at least). Then we were off to Celtic Motors, where H. waited with Stuart and Toby for the final tally on the Volvo while I went to Enterprise to return the Jetta (which looked like the inside of a box of Fruit Loops that had collided with a box of Cheez-Its in the Fourth Dimension of Matter and Magazines). Around 5:15, H. rescued Elliot and I, finding us out front of Enterprise looking like a pair of forlorn Okies who had failed to outrun the Dust Bowl.

To say that we are frazzled barely scratches the surface. Our patience and resilience has been tested too many times, and we now live in fear of another breakdown somewhere between Kalispell and Tyngsborough. That's what happens when your trusted new mechanic tells you it looks like the oil hasn't been changed in your car in over 4 years (we've had it for three and paid for numerous oil changes). That's what happens when your trusted new mechanic tells you the inside of your old transmission looked like a Civil War-era steam locomotive had collided with a back alley dumpster from Love Canal in the Fourth Dimension of Transmission Fluid and Dime Novels.

Our plan is this: Drive until our eyes turn purple. With a few stops (Wall Drug, The Corn Palace, The Spam Museum). It is our hope, remote though it may be, to be home by Sunday night. But it looks iffy -- iffy even in a world of 100 mph speed limits, empty interstates, and flawless seven year old Volvo station wagons.

I suspect this is where the fun begins. Although I thought the same thing at the Louisville Slugger Factory.

Do you think it's just that Pennsylvania has it in for me? After all those things I said? Well, it can't be helped. I meant what I said about the Keystone State.

(photo at top: Lake MacDonald, Glacier N.P. last week -- note forest fire smoke through the middle of the photo)

Yawn.

Old Faithful, Sunday, August 11, 2007, 3:03 p.m. No noise. No fanfare. Just a lot of hot water and a thumbing of the nose at what one normally expects to see rocketing skyward from a hole in the ground. Truly, this is a majestic sight. The earth is a very silly place.

He Got the Joke

Around the time of this photo, we made references to eating a bowl of spicy chili the night before. The six year old understood it. Hilarity ensued.

New Friends

Stuart (with beloved apple) and Toby (with new friend, Buff the Bison). In the background, a Yellowstone Jackrabbit. No, actually, it's an elk. And I don't mean the elk crossing the road in front of the Nissan Quest minivan.

Gate of Heaven

Through this arch pass the luckiest people on earth. The northwest entrance to Yellowstone National Park, outside Gardiner, MT.

Welcome Back to Kalispell

Well, well, well. We meet again. You, me, the Internet. With thanks to the La Quinta Inn & Suites' WiFi, I have news for you.

A new transmission!

But before we go there, let me bring you up to date on what happened to bring us where are today: Back in Kalispell.

We got the Volvo back on Friday, thanks to the Gang at Celtic Motors. Oh, that would be last Friday, like, um, the 9th or something like that. It was so long ago. (Reading our entries about the Lousiville Slugger factory make us long for July and its relative simplicity.) So, anyway, the folks at Celtic replaced two sensors, gave the car a few test drives, and pronounced it provisionally healthy. By 5 in the afternoon, we were driving through the entrance of Glacier National Park, happy to be reunited with our car. In the evening, we packed our things and put our bags by the door. At 6 a.m., we (H. and I) were loading the car and we departed Spoon Lake at 7:45-ish.

Keep in mind, we had driven the car about 45 miles the night before. All seemed right with the world.

Well, 45 minutes down the road from Columbia Falls we glided into the tiny hamlet of Lakeside, Montana, on the shores of enormous Flathead Lake. Coming into town, we slowed in traffic to about 10 mph, when the car started rumbling as if being driven over pavement rumbled strips.

"Is that the car or the road?" Asked Heather.

"I don't know," I replied.

But as soon as traffic picked up and I tried to accelerate, all the same old warning lights came on in the dash, and the car would barely move. Pedal to the metal, I was lucky to keep the beast rolling into the nearest parking lot. What ensued was the most disturbingly stressful and absurdly frustrating wait of my life (although the family was a bunch of troopers, thanks in no small part to a nearby elementary school and its sweet playground).

Ridiculously long story short, we were towed (on a flatbed) back into Kalispell about 70 minutes later. It was a Saturday morning and Celtic Motors was closed for the weekend, but we left the car there anyway and took the aforementioned Red VW Jetta from Enterprise.

By 1:45 in the afternoon, we were on the road once more, in borrowed car, headed for Livingston, MT, where we had previously booked a room for our intended passage through Yellowstone on our WAY HOME!

We spent Sunday tooling around the glorious roads and through the grand scenery of that most majestic of parks, Yellowstone. Haven't been there? Go. Now. Been there before? Go. Again. Think National Parks are a waste of time? Get your head examined.

Of course, Stuart earned another Junior Ranger badge at Yellowstone. We drove into the Grand Tetons National Park, too, which was just sickeningly gorgeous. Saw moose, elk, mule deer, and bison in Yellowstone, including one bison H. could have reached out and touched beside the Jetta. Saw Old Faithful (and her absurd hordes of observers), Yellowstone Lake, and so many awesome trout rivers. Trout rivers, trout rivers, trout rivers. Holy guacamole! My breathing is getting erratic just thinking about them. Let me pause here.

We decided to remain in Livingston another night (the hotel had a nicely heated swimming pool the kids LOVED) and spent Monday in and around beautiful (and affluent) Bozeman. This included a stop at the legendary Reproduction Fabrics Quilt Shop and the delightfully dinosaur-packed Museum of the Rockies. And another night in Livingston.

Tuesday morning, we packed the car with all our gear and headed into Yellowstone once more, for a few more hikes, a few more souvenirs, and a few more good times. And, oh, another look at all those trout rivers. (Gulp.) After all that, at about 3, we headed out of the area, along the back routes, and landed once more in Butte.

Ugh. Butte.

At least we made two good decisions this time: We stayed at the super-clean Days Inn and ate at the local MacKenzie River Pizza Company (a Montana chain highly recommended to you Montana visitors).

This morning we extracted ourselves from Butte and drove through the smoke and ashes on our way back here to Kalispell.

Oh. Yeah. I forgot. Back on Monday morning I called Celtic Motors. The words were, "You need a new transmission. We're getting one from Boise. It'll be here Wednesday, if all goes well."

I stopped by Celtic today when we rolled into Kalispell. The Volvo was up on the rack, its underbelly exposed, a new (used) transmission being transplanted. We hope it'll be done tomorrow afternoon.

In the morning? One more try for Logan Pass at the top of Glacier National Park. Hope the Jetta makes it.

What did you miss?

Here's the blog I wrote last week to bring you up to speed. I couldn't post it at the time, but here it is now. To keep you wanting more:

Vild Fires and Volvo Voes, Among Other Things
It has been said, facetiously, that a lot can happen in a year. I’d tell you that a lot more can happen in even just a few days. For it has indeed been more than a few days since my last entry here and quite a bit has occurred.
First, we must remember the unforgettable lines stamped on each copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy: Don’t Panic. Digest those words, make them your credo, yes, even consider having them tattooed in fluorescent ink inside your eyelids.
We arrived in Columbia Falls, Montana, on Sunday afternoon, August 5th, around 2 p.m. After a warm greeting from Paul and Melissa, and meeting their daughter Zadie for the first time, we set to work on pressing matters. Which were? Extracting the fly fishing gear from the car and then lifting the car over our heads and shaking all the bags, toys, and assorted detritus of the road trip loose from every nook and cranny a Volvo offers. The dirt driveway soon resembled the garbage cans you find at one of those do-it-yourself car washes, the garbage cans right next to the industrial strength vacuums. Disgusting. Stuart was soon out on Spoon Lake with “Uncle” Paul in one of the canoes here at the cabin, while Elliot and Toby rejoiced in being set free from the bondage of their car seats.
Monday morning brought our foray into Columbia Falls to buy fishing licenses and to get a feel for what the local waters might hold for the avid fly fisherman. Sprinkled in among the many profanities at Arends Fly Shop was a chuck wagon full of information about the boulders and fast water of the Flathead River. Bull Trout and Westslope Cutthroat Trout run in these water, as well as rainbows deep in fast runs. But there was a clear warning that proved very accurate about the Flathead, particularly the North Fork where we are doing much of our river fishing: The water is “gin clear” and a helluva lot deeper than it looks. That spot where you think you might find yourself thigh-deep is actually going to put you in over your head. The water is that clear.
And what beautiful water. Paul and I were out on the main stretch of the Flathead by afternoon, and though we landed no fish, I did have about a dozen hits from trout of varying size. This was Paul’s first serious effort at fly-fishing and he did well. Since Monday, we’ve spent much of our fishing time, for a number of reasons, out on Spoon Lake casting flies for cutthroat trout, which are in abundance in the water here, as well as the dreaded Yellow Perch.
In other, more breathtaking news, we are suffering the effects of at least two of the five major wildfires raging here around Glacier National Park. Due west, beyond Whitefish, MT, a huge fire roars skyward, sending a steady plume of smoke our way. Pretty sad to see, and it does a fair job of wrecking the views within “super scenic” Glacier National Park itself.
Tuesday we went into the park via the North Fork Road, a washboard dirt road 15 miles long – it took 45 minutes. Much of the drive found the trout-laden North Fork of the Flathead on our right and scorched forest on our left (scorched by wildfires four and five years ago. The vistas were stark and gut-wrenching. The ride was butt-busting. But we eventually made it into Glacier and down to MacDonald Lake, where we ate a picnic lunch before the afternoon was washed out by an enormous thunderstorm. No rain fell on the fires (not that it was enough to help anyway), but it was enough to ruin our planned hike.
In the evening, Paul and I ventured onto Spoon Lake in the canoe, fishing from after dinner (7:30) until sunset (9:45). As the sunlight finally broke from the horizon, we were swarmed by the most insistent squadron of bats I have ever encountered – bats which swooped across the bow of the canoe and swirled between Paul at the bow and myself at the stern. The result? Well, I have never paddled a canoe faster in my life. Bats were still dodging our swinging fly rods as we bolted from the shore for the door of the cabin.
Creepy.
This morning we once more drove into Glacier. This time on a paved road. And Volvo struck again. After leaving the booths where the Park Service collects its fees, two warning lights came on in the dash – the transmission was misbehaving. Badly. We were in two cars and the Savelles tried to soldier on over the insistence of the blinking warning lights. Eventually, the weakened transmission (going in and out of “limp home” mode) forced us to abandon our plans within Glacier once more. In the afternoon, Paul followed me as I drove the Volvo into Kalispell to the nearest capable transmission specialist. Nick at Flathead Transmission Services was unable to diagnose to problem, but sent us on to Celtic Motors, where they specialize in Celtic cars. No. Actually, they specialize in Beamers, VeeDubs, and Volvos. At Celtic, they’re nearly positive, once again, that our problem is a faulty sensore. But we won’t know until THEIR diagnostic computer is back from being repaired, possibly a few days.
Not to worry, folks at home. We have some time to spare, and have plans to rent a car and spend the weekend down at Yellowstone and Grand Tetons. If there are major problems with the car, my “friends” at Volvo can expect a court date. And a car I once loved is now slated for the auction block. Seriously. Enough is enough.
Anyway, we’re in fine spirits and continue to have a great time. The landscape out here is awesome, truly, and Spoon Lake itself is home to dozens of loons, which wake us with their haunting morning call. At the far end of the lake a nearly-mature bald eagle has made its home, and we have seen mule deer just a few yards from the front door. Standing on the deck overlooking the lake in the early morning or anytime between 6 p.m. and sunset, you can see the circular ripples made on the surface of th water by rising trout. And despite car trouble, we’re going back to the park as well as heading out for still more wading/fly fishing on the incredible North Fork of the Flathead. And why not? Today, Paul caught his first fish on a fly. Good for him.
Honestly, don’t let our car trouble worry you. We’re not letting it. It’s simply adding some drama to a saggy blog.
And did you guess there’s no WiFi (or Internet to speak of) at the cabin?

The Wilderness

We are somewhat adrift in the wilderness. BUT! We are okay. We are having fun.

The Volvo is in Kalispell, awaiting a new transmission, due to arrive today (we have been told and we trust this is true). As soon as Celtic Motors gets the new tranny, they say they'll start putting it in.

Meanwhile, we have spent two days in Yellowstone, a day tooling around Bozeman, and find ourselves in Butte once again, thanks to our rented VW Jetta (now as messy and stinky as the Volvo was).

Anyway, this is a short entry. Internet access was spotty in Livingstone and non-existent in Columbia Falls. I have a lot to tell you when I get time. Maybe tonight, from either Missoula or even Kalispell.

No Corny Titles Here

Greetings from Livingston, Montana. Here's a quick dispatch for you, with details to come soon.

The Volvo broke down. Twice. Currently, we're driving a rented VW Jetta for a weekend at Yellowstone before heading back to Columbia Falls/Kalispell to, we hope, get a fixed Volvo early in the week.

Otherwise, though without a car for a better part of the last week, our stay in Columbia Falls was delightful. Westslope Cutthroat Trout are a blast to catch.

Everyone's fine. Details to come.

Wake Up and Smell the Butte

Good morning from Butte, MT. Yesterday was a long drive out of Utah and through Idaho to reach Montana at long last. The downside is that a head cold running through the Volvo has finally reached Elliot, giving him the worst of i; the upside is that we got to stop at the Potato Expo and Museum in Blackfoot, Idaho, to see the World's Largest potato "crisp" (which is a Pringle to you and me).

Then it was on to Montana and our stop in Butte. And Butte seems to have gotten the Butte-end of excitement in all of Montana. But this morning we are loading up and getting ready to press on with the last four hours of our travels. Tonight we plan to be resting at Melissa and Paul's place on Spoon Lake.

Internet? We'll see.

This Is Not A Joke

There were countless signs like this one between Ouray, Colorado, and the road into Durango, Colorado. It was a 74 mile trip that took 3 hours. We took the Volvo across three mountain passes in excess of 10,000 feet, I believe.

The ETS light has come on again three times now, and it has gone off again each time after stopping and restarting the engine (not on purpose, but simply because of what we were doing). For Sale: One tempermental Volvo XC-70.

At one point on Thursday, the Volvo and its occupants reached a 12,000 foot summit. No photos were taken.

Hey, you get to the top and then its time to go down. No time for games.

Everything He Said Was Dead-On

This is a photo of a guy named John Van Hayden (I hope I got that right). He lives in Taos, New Mexico. We met him in Canon City (pronounced Canyon), Colorado. He gave us plenty of tips about the fantastic scenery and roads into, out of, and through the Rockies, and the Black Canyon National Park area. He described it all in such detail and with such a passion that I wanted him to come along with us. The problem? Where would we fit him?

Here he is showing off his hand-rebuilt Indian motorcycle, which he was riding back to Taos from the Canon City area. One of the nicest guys I've ever met on the road, and certainly living his life the way he wants.

Thanks, John, for all the spot-on info.

Storms Were Brewing

Kids. Toby on left, Stuart on right. Major thunderstorm brewing in the background. Nice to see they haven't been wrapped in duct tape by their parents yet.

The Smell of Mitt and Plenty More

Provo, Utah. Mitt Romney country. Oh, no, wait, he was governor of Massachusetts, right? Hard to believe, seeing as how he spent about 7 hours and 32 minutes of his 4 year term actually doing anything in Massachusetts. Most of that had to do with the Big Dig tunnel collapse.

But you don't come here to read my political views (much). You go here and here for that. Or here.

But this is Utah, which is Romney country. And we slipped into Provo late on Friday night, after a long day of doing quite a bit. We have yet to see Mitt, or his hair, or his seventeen kids, but we have otherwise seen a lot today.

Friday morning found us in Durango, Colorado. Thursday had been a beautiful day of mountains, mountains, mountains. Friday was desert, desert, mesa, desert. We were on the road out of Durango but 7:30 a.m., Mountain Time, and soon wandered into Mesa Verde National Park to see the ancient cliff dwellings of the Ancestral Puebloans. The dwellings were nothing short of impressive, and Stuart, Toby, and I even climbed down into one of their kivas -- an underground chamber for spiritual worship. Wicked cool. I can tell you those ancestral Puebloans were short people, around Stuart's height it seems. Well, okay, maybe a foot taller, but no more. The cliff dwellings were outrageously beautiful and walking among them -- even with the French Canadian, German, Italian, and Tennessean tourists -- was enough to take your breath away. It took little to imagine being a resident of those parts in those times (some 800 years ago or more), living a simple life of hunting and farming on the glorious mesas of southwestern Colorado. But cups of coffee were scarce, and it was time to move on.

By early afternoon we had crossed into Utah and on into Moab, spiritual home of the late, great Edward Abbey. A short spell up route 191 was the entrance to Arches National Park, home of such great geologic formations as Balanced Rock, Delicate Arch, Double Arch, Pothole Arch, the Windows, and Park Avenue. As mentioned in the previous post, Stuart earned his third Junior Park Ranger badge at Arches, which was a difficult feat. The little guy, like the rest of us, could hardly contain himself in the midst of so much natural beauty.

America, why do you do this to me? First the Lousiville Slugger Factory tour. Now Arches National Park? Are you mad? And in between, America, your Rocky Mountains and the sheer delight and trout madness of Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park?

Stop it, America. You may make me love you again.

Oh, what am I saying? America, I have always loved you, your natural beauty, your crazy peasants and their crazy aspirations to become the next Getty or Gates or Buffett or (Eric) Savelle. I love your byways, your highways, your maddening lane closures and your muddy trout rivers carrying runoff from a bizarre summer desert rain.

Anyway, Arches was, as you'd expect, pure and simple awesomeness, from entrance to exit.

Afterwards, it was on through the deserts of Utah (including the 100 mile stretch of I-70 where the only exits were to ranches and highway services of any kind were nonesistent -- did we fuel-up at the right time?) until we arrived south of Salt Lake City in the city of Provo.

Tomorrow? Who knows? We'll either head for Columbia Falls and our final destination, or head to Yellowstone.

Note of Warning: Once we're at our final destination outside Columbia Falls, Montana, I am uncertain what our Internet access will be. So posts to the blog may slow or even cease for a bit. We'll see. I have tonnes (as the Brits would say) more to tell you. So much we have seen, so much we have learned. However, long days and late nights have prevented me from getting to all of it.

Savelles On Parade

A couple of photos for you of us at the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park on Thursday. We went without WiFi on Thursday night and rolled into Provo, Utah, tonight (Friday) very very very very late. Sorry for the lack of posts, but more to come. We're having a great time.

Please note H.'s new Bass Pro Shops t-shirt in trendy brown with pink logo!

At Black Canyon, Stuart became an official Junior Ranger for the National Park Service. He earned additional badges today (Friday) at Mesa Verde and Arches National Parks.

A Quick One While You're Away

Today was primarily a travel day. Tonight we are in Pueblo, Colorado. Tomorrow: Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park.

Perhaps even a little . . . fly-fishing?

We are 4,668 feet above sea level. And gaining. Oh, and it's Mountain Time, so, as I write this, many of you people are waking to a hot cup of coffee and I'm just about ready to go to bed. And, yes, I find some irony in this being called the "Pittsburgh of the West." Looking at Pueblo, I find it truly plausible that this town was cut from the same cloth as the Steeltown, USA.

P.S. No, we had no intention of taking I-35.