Been berry, berry good to me

These are just a few things that bears like to eat instead of me.

A Walk In the Park, Part One

By this point in the trip, I had successfully managed to ward off any long (or even short) hikes through the park. It's not that I am against rigorous physical exercise, my friends; indeed, I revel in the occassional jumping jack or a swift nighttime run, though it's usually from the couch to the potty during a commercial for "Wife Swap." I am not sure you have a complete understanding about just how dangerous nature can be. Every single time we entered the park, we got a newsletter that told us about mountain lions stalking, bears mauling, mountain goats butting, elk goring, or bighorn sheep baah-ing, which can be chilling if you are caught unawares. Advice is offered to protect tourists; things like: "Don't scream!", which is not really an issue if your throat is being ripped out, or, "Don't get between a mother and her cubs," advice which would be much easier to follow if bears and cubs didn't act like they owned the whole forest. They frolic and play in culverts and behind trees, concealed in foliage and bent over behind shrubs, so, I ask you, how would a person with limited senses of sight, smell and sound even know where the bear families are hanging out? Glacier isn't like a WalMart, you know, with brightly lit aisles and well-marked stations; this is the woods, baby, dark, mysterious and scary, the kind that Little Red Riding Hood or Hansel and Gretel get lost in! It's like a JUNGLE out there, I tell ya! Needless to say, while I was enchanted by the beauty that surrounded me,

I was not altogether eager to foray in the forest.

At first, it was pretty easy to coerce McAdams into doing my bidding. "Yeah, today is a great day for a hike," I would coo. "But it is kind of hot and dusty. Let's swing by Lake McDonald for a little dip first. Say, why don't I treat us to a six-pack of Huckleberry brew?" From time to time I would insist upon a huge, starchy lunch that would make us logy, or ask to be driven up the Road to the Sun just one more time. Once I feigned diarrhea. I'm not proud, but you do what you have to in order to survive in the wild.
Finally McAdams said it was now or never. She chose a hike she knew that was 14 miles; seven miles in, seven out. We'd have to leave early and pack a lunch. We were in a part of the park called Many Glacier, and we would be hiking the Grinnell Complex. That's right. Not just a small mountain, a hillock perhaps, but a whole complex of mountains. In the backwoods. Where no one could hear you scream. I pictured a scene from my future: two foolish and intrepid hikers make it to one of the lakes on Mount Grinnell and stop to skinny dip in the crystal clear waters. It's cold, and they cavort and then cling together to stay warm, talking and laughing, giddy on the glory of the nature that surrounds them. Something touches the foot of the lady hiker, and, still giggling, she reaches down to see what has floated downstream to gently nudge her. It's my femur, bleached white and worn smooth by the lake, but still bearing the evidence of what must have been a valiant struggle; the teeth and claw marks of both a mountain lion and a grizz, etched into the bone. Nothing kills a mood like a human carcass, campers. Take heed: this could be you!




McAdams has stories of when she has come into contact with bears. She once narrowly escaped with her life, when, running headlong down a steep hill, she came unexpectedly upon a mama grizzly bent over in the woods, eating some berries, maybe taking a poo. Bears really do shit in the woods, ya know. She tells this tale with seriousness, but also with a sense of thrill and reverence that leads me to infer that she would not be too horrified to see another bear; indeed, she would welcome the sighting. She spoke of the things tourists do in order to warn bears of a human presence. Bear spray is popular. It's a cayenne pepper concoction that McAdams says is good only to turn the tourist into a tasty salsa treat. Bells that one ties onto ones shoes to make noise she dubbed "dinner bells." "Nope," she said, "the only way to be safe is to yell 'Yo, Bear' at regular intervals. They pretty much leave you alone if you do that."
I was not comforted.


We went to the little store to buy our lunch. I tried to choose foods that smelled like plastic or pesticide. We filled up on water that came from a tube stuck in a limestone mountain. I wasn't sure if it was potable - a sign said I'd have to drink at my own risk - but since my chances of surviving in the backwoods were minimal, I decided to throw caution to the wind.

We sat down to a hearty breakfast, though, truly, I was feeling a bit nauseous. The nineteen year old kid who was our waiter in Montana this summer, but a California surfer kid the rest of the year started to chat McAdams up.

"Where are you guys headed this morning? It's an awesome day for a hike!"

"Up Grinnell! Gonna go to the top!"

Cheerful idiots, I thought. Fools. Shut the hell up and serve me my last breakfast.

"Oh wow, yeah, right on! Only, like it's closed. Been closed all week. You can only go up halfway."

"Closed!" McAdams was visibly shaken. "Why?"

"Bear activity, dude. Elk carcasses on the path. Gnarly bear feast, for sure."

I felt like Mr.Burns from the Simpsons. My fingers steepled together. "Excellent," I hissed.

Fire on the mountain

Eden, Wyoming

a poem

Eden, Wyoming

Population 220

Tiny houses, big land

One room, log cabin church

Driveway of dirt

Flat, but the mountains,

Like beckoning ghosts,

Always calling from just over the horizon

One Sinclair gas station

No dinosaur

And then,

Farms, cows, dust

Scraggly tree and bored crow

Miles and miles of camoflauge countryside

Not my idea of paradise, really.

Hi there. It's me again. I'm back.

Eduardo said he'd like me to continue the blog. I like Eduardo, and sometimes he handles my legal affairs on the cheap, so I've decided to oblige his request. I'm cool like that.

So, after Polebridge, we began to make the long trek back home. We cut across Montana, through Idaho, and into Washington. We travelled scenic byways and highways, through forests, down coasts, over bridges, under big sky, on the occasional dirt road, and up several driveways.




So, when we were in Monatana, the Bob Marshall Wilderness Reserve was on fire, and that was visible for over 300 miles (Holy Smokes!); there was a big fire near the Idaho border, which we saw from the highway. Helicopters that looked like determined blue-bottle flies would hover over enormous plumes of smoke and drop gallons of water below. The water gushed out, like rain through a funnel, but it never seemed nearly enough to stem the flames or even break through the smoke. The air was acrid and our eyes got squinty. It was a bad scene, blogstahs. We figured it was probably the fault of people, as opposed to lightning strike. As Smokey, says, "Remember: only you can prevent forest fires." After this we learned a valuable lesson and pee-peed out the window for the rest of our trip.

Oh my goodness! I just realized how ahead of myself I have gotten! I have completely omitted what may have been my favorite day in Glacier; the day of the hike! It was fabulous! Pretend like you aven't read this post, then read the next one, then come back. Damn linear time! Cursed natural progression!

Disclaimer and Update

This is me, trying to look simultaneously sincere, charming and humble.

So, for those of you who are still hanging in there, a wee disclaimer; The Big Adventure is over. Has been for weeks. I'm back in the Metroplexis* in which I live, and routine and normalcy are settling in like dust in the pores of my skin. HOWEVER, I will press on! I will continue to write this blog as if I were still out on the road, a new experience just around the bend. You may be asking yourself, "Why? What's the point?" Well, here's the dealio: I started something, and I'm going to finish it. That is not my usual modus operandi, no sir! This time, however, I will accompli my fait, and when I do, I will be proud. I don't blame you if you want to drop out; you've been faithful readers, and writing to you has been a pleasure, but I understand if you feel a little duped, or maybe you have a life or something and don't want to live in my past. Go on, if you must. I'll understand.

But I'll be lonely.

So keep reading, and write to me, so that I am validated by the perception that others think I'm interesting. If you do it, you'll probably go to heaven, even if you aren't a Mormon.

Stay tuned!

*Thought I'd let down my guard, didn't ya, cyber-stalkers?!

Polebridge Proper

In the early 1900's, William "Billy" Adair built a hotel on the east side of what was to become, ten years later, Glacier National Park. Maybe he was "eminent domained", maybe he took one look at the park rangers and thought, "There goes the neighborhood," but for whatever reason, Billy and his wife Jessie decided to up and move to the opposite side of the park, to the North Fork Valley, and start up a little sumpin' sumpin' on the top of a mountain in the middle of Nowheresville, USA. In 1912, they built a little log cabin, and in 1914 erected the Mercantile Store, which quickly became the hub of a very small community. They named it Polebridge after a nearby bridge made of logs, or, 'poles', if you will, and there it still stands, almost completely unchanged. The original dwelling is now the Northern Lights Saloon and Cafe, and people come from miles around to eat the gourmet (I kid you not!) fare that is served there. During the tourist season, the tiny cafe serves about 150 fresh cooked meals on a weekend night, no small feat considering that Polebridge relies on well water, propane and propane products, kerosene, and a generator for its water and electricity. There's the Northern Lights, owned and run by a couple from Idaho, I think; he is an artist that does kind of psychedelic landscapes and loves to talk sports with the tourists. She is a big, blond blues singer, who likes to perform at the annual Aurorafest (this year featuring Freekbass and The Woodbox Gang!).The other major structure in Polebridge (if you don't include the barn) is the Merc. The girl working at the Merc this year was Linnae, from California. She told us what cabin we were in (no pesky keys to have to deal with - there was a hook we could lock the door with from the inside), and said, "Yeah, we like to party, and there's a stage out back where they play live music, and after that we'll probably be jamming in the barn. Just come on over and tell us to hush if it gets too loud." She manned the front of the store while this skinny, hippie baker dude was in the back, baking up a storm of these amazing pastries; strawberry-rhubarb wheat scones and artichoke-cheese-jalapeno danishes and all kinds of breads. Later, I heard Linnae and the baker-dude speaking in code. "So, yeah, do you want to give me those... 'things'... now or, like, later?" Polebridge parlance, I guess.

Attached to the store is a two-story wooden house where this kid, Max, lives. Max is maybe nine or ten, but he was home alone, because his mom was in Bozeman for the night, picking up his cousin. Max was playing volleyball with some teenagers in the communal volleyball pit under a big sign that said "Keep your dogs on a leash -local dogs running free!" There was a gas pump and a payphone, and some little cabins out back, for the tourists to rent. McAdams said that they were pretty new; before they were constructed, the tourists rented teepees.

So, that's it. That's Polebridge.The first picture on this page shows all of it. We walked into the saloon, past huge black dogs that were indeed running wild, and the big blonde told us what was being served for dinner. I chose the organic salad and a shrimp risotto thing. There was huckleberry lemonade and about four beers on tap, as well as a pretty well-stocked bar. The cook came out and I chatted her up about the organic salad stuff, most of which she grew herself. She said she cut open a mattress and filled it with bison poop, and then put raised boxes of good soil over that for her garden. She said stuff grew pretty well, except she had to fend off a lot of deer. Everything was fantastic. Everybody was happy, full and friendly. There was homemade pie for dessert, and afterwards everyone went outside and sat on picnic benches to shoot the breeze and drink some wine. McAdams and I, who had been talking to nobody but each other for weeks eavesdropped eagerly.

There was a guy from France who looked like a Steinbeck hobo who said he had two houses; one where he and "his lady" lived, and one just outside of Polebridge, where he went when he got sick of his wife. "I'm going to my house, I tell her!", he said. He talked about going to Big Fork to do his laundry and meeting a woman who said she was born and raised in Montana, but who had never heard of a place in the state that had no lights or water."Oh, that tickled me!" he chortled.

There was this hot tattooed guy with tight black pants and three little gold hoops pierced in his lips talking with a young, clean cut kid who later turned out to be Linnae's boyfriend. The kid was telling his life story. "So then my mom married this so called "Native American" guy, and he's the one who brought us up here. I been hanging out since I was about thirteen. The Indian wanted to 'get back to nature', or whatever, so he moved to Canada, but we hung out here a lot." Later that night her ordered a bunch of beer to go and a "triple shot of Goldschlager - in a plastic cup, for Linnae." The hot-pierced-tat-boy smiled slowly. It seems Linnae had a friend, and the night was still young.

Out of the woods emerged a guy who looked all GQ California, wearing cool sunglasses, a perfect haircut, cargo shorts, and a white fleece pullover. It gets cold up in the mountains, ya know. He passed all the people at the picnic tables, ignored the volleyball pit, and went straight to the payphones. He talked quietly for about half an hour, and then as abruptly as he had come, disappeared mysteriously back into the forest.

It was about 10:30 pm, and the sun was beginning to slide down the sky. Polebridge is so far north it stays light until late-thirty, at least. McAdams and I decided to head for our cabin while it was still light, but first a brief pit stop. I headed back to the Northern Lights to peepee. "Where ya goin'?" she asked agreeably. She can be like that, ya know. Real amiable, our McAdams.

"Bathroom," I said quietly. No need to tell everyone!

"It's not in there," she purred, relishing every word. "You have to use the outhouse."

That's right. No phone, no lights, no motor cars, not a single luxury. Certainly no toilet.

Now, I'm not really the outhouse type, believe it or not. I like candles and bath salts and fluffy bath mats so my feet don't touch the cold tile in the morning. I think McAdams may have suspected this about me. "I brought extra toilet paper," she said soothingly.

This is the view from the outhouse. It wasn't so bad. In fact, as the night went on, I noticed that it was actually a very popular place. People came from on the horizon, whistlin' a tune, carryin' a roll of toilet paper over their heads, rappin' gently on the wooden door, doin' their bizniss, then heading back to wherever they had come from. There were some paperback mysteries and a book about a summer romance. There was a poster on one wall that detailed the differences between the black bear and its more fierce brother, the grizzly. They're both scary. There was a bucket (not the one under the hole you sit on) that had a sign on it that said, "You drop it in, we haul it out. Tips graciously accepted." I emptied my pockets every time I emptied my bladder, but I couldn't really imagine how much it would take to make that job a worthwhile endeavor.

Finally, night was coming to Polebridge. If we had been there a little later, we might have seen the Aurora Borealis. As it was, we saw stars for miles, and the slow but steady blanket of night tucking in the valley. People called out good nights: "Whose turn is it to watch Max tonight?" and "Joey, get yer butt on in here now!"Cars sputtered and caught and made their way down the long dusty rut they call a road in these parts. McAdams and I decided it was safer to use a flashlight than figure out how the gas lamp worked and we read to each other in the little round glow it cast. Then we whispered and covered up to our necks under our quilts and said goodnight. My last thought before falling asleep was: Man, I sure hope I don't have to pee in the night!

Polebridge rocked.

AURORA BOREALIS

Polebridge

OK, so where were we? I believe when we last left our story, our heroines were merrily baking in the sun on the shores of Lake McDonald, trying to imagine all the things that the mountain that looks like the a profile of a proud Native American chief has seen over all the years he has watched over the lake. We wake up and I begin to slather the Super SPF. McAdams informs me that this day will be different from others; today we will go to Polebridge. "Where is that?" I ask in my innocent, trusting way. "Nowhere," McAdams said slyly. She's like that sometimes, our McAdams. Wily.
We traversed the park, and drove through miles and miles of beauty and green. We pass campsites and bikers, chipmunks and deer. We keep going. We take a turn here, a jag there, go up a hill, hang a sharp left. I wonder if McAdams knows where she's going. There are fewer signs alerting us to trailheads and tourists' points of interest. In fact, it begins to seem as if we are headed nowhere in particular. We go through a part of the forest that was ravaged by wildfire in 2003; it's a totally different view of the landscape; sort of, well, dead and burnt, but it's also very striking, and hopeful in its way. Forest fires are common in the area and are often devastating. This summer has been bad in the northeast, and we witnessed two of them on our travels. One fire, in a wilderness conservation area, was so huge that we saw the smoke for about 300 miles. Right after we left the park, a community right near it, in Helena, I think, had to be evacuated because of fire. Most of they time they are caused by natural phenomena (ba-dee-dee, ba-dee-dee! Those of you who know what song I'm referencing, aren't you a clever OLDSTER!!), like lightning strikes, but humans are also responsible for many of the blazes.





Still we pressed on. McAdams smiled to herself, as she turned onto what I would have to call a pathway, and rolled up my window. She's like that, sometimes, our McAdams. Controlling. She'll just roll up your window for no reason, even if you are hanging out of it like a joyful dog with his nose to the wind. "Here we go, " she said in a somewhat self satisfied tone, as if she knew a secret.

Said secret was soon to be 'splained, Lucy! (Today's story is brought to you by the letter "S", the rhetorical device "alliteration", and the Desilu sitcom that changed the way we look at zany redheads and Cuban band leaders, "I Love Lucy".) The cracked and crumbling asphalt of the pathway soon degraded into a combination of chalky shards of rock, dirt and potholes. Pillars of dust enveloped us. We were disguised like superheroes in a tricked-out supersonic getaway car, like the Batmobile, only we were camouflaged like a really powerful sheep made of dust or a cloud with anger management issues. Our eyes watered. It hurt to breathe. It was so bumpy our kidneys began to ache. We were slowed to about 2.5 mph. "How long do we stay on this...driveway?" I asked. "Fourteen miles," McAdams replied choppily, as the nose of our little car disappeared in a road hole.

And so, up and up, over that narrow, cliff-hugging road, we inched our way passed woods and vales, the occasional gurgling stream, burnt black poles that had once housed birds, bugs and berries, and thick tangles of out of controlliage foliage. Wildflowers nodded gracefully, butterflies danced lazily, and often in the distance, just beyond my field of vision, I'm certain that gangs of bears and mountain lions marked our slow progress, stalking us silently. They do that, ya know.

But wait! What is that in the distance? Could it be a sign of human life? What would humans be doing up here? Incredible, but undeniable; posted to various trees out in the wilderness were "Keep out!" and "No trespassing!" signs. I tell you, blogsters, we were NO-WHERE. Anyone who lived out here would have to be a true isolationist. Sure, it was beautiful up here, but so remote and off the grid! The person who lived in the tiny log cabin shack I could just barely catch a glimpse of must hate other people. Maybe he or she was a fugitive running from Johnny Law; maybe he was someone who had turned on, tuned in , and then dropped so far out he couldn't find his way back again. Maybe this was Unabomber, Aryan Nation, Satanic Freakazoid training ground. Norman Bates retirement home. Squeaky Fromme's Psilocybin Ranch. But wait! What was this? Why, it appeared to be...farmland! Yes, there was the hay rolled into neat parcels, and there was a barbed wire fence, perhaps to keep the cattle from the, um, lane, I guess you'd call it, or maybe to keep the bear from the cattle! Why this was madness, I tell you, madness! How would you get the hay to market? How would you get water to the hay? And, what's this? A hand-lettered sign that says "Come by for ice cream, beer and T-shirts, 3 miles" - no way! Eight miles up this car-destroying ribbon of dirt and rock, someone was trying to make a living selling dairy treats, cold beverages and souvenirs! Montana, land of mystery, will I never grow prepared for your bounty of surprises?! With a smile, I waited for McAdams to turn on her blinker, not that anyone behind us (if indeed there had been anyone behind us) could see it through the dust storm we had kicked up. I could do with a little of the cold, creamy stuff - maybe a chocolate beer float, or something like that.

She didn't stop. We continued, for what seemed to be another hour, up that tiny road until we saw a sign...

and then another...

I told you it was dusty!!

Finally, we had reached Polebridge, Montana, population: well, I don't know. Maybe 40.

TO BE CONTINUED!!!!

Bummer blog

Before I left on this vacation, I had been thinking a lot about how random life is. I had just talked for a long time with my friend Reed, an existential atheist, who had pondered the meaning of life and death after attempting to kill an ant in the shower. I thought about how the good get the shaft and the wicked and incompetent are rewarded, about how incredibly lucky I am, why people I know who are more worthy than I seem to always be suffering, and about how our hardships don't even begin to compare with the injustice and cruelty others around the world have to face. I considered how people inexplicably find each other and love completely, and why others are lost just as fully. The haphazard nature of existence, the no rhyme or reason, the patterns that can't be predicted; it all just really amazes me. When I went on the Big Adventure, a friend gave me Don Delillo's latest book, Falling Man, which is set during the aftermath of 9/11, and so, of course, deals with the unexpected, unresolvable, and uncontrollable. Even while I was thinking and reading about all of this, during this vacation, though every day has an element of the new and unknown, there is an order and a plan to follow: every day, no matter where we are, we will move forward along a more or less predetermined course. This is the time for vacation and these are the things in this realm of possibility; this is how these factors are similar and differ from the day before. I was lulled into the comfort of the pattern. Every day we are lulled.
I was totally unprepared for the crashing of the bridge in Minneapolis. How horrible. How devastating. How chilling. How bizarre. How random. My heart goes out to everybody. I feel so sorry for all those people and their families, and for all the others, not just here in the US, but everywhere, around the world, who suffer for reasons I just can't seem to grasp.
Take care and live well, people. Even if there is no purpose, no reason, no mission, no meaning, no guiding light, no nothing, I hope that we are all happy to be alive for as long as we are living, and I wish us all well. I hope I don't forget to really pay attention, and not fall complacent. I hope I remember not to live my life lulled.

For AE, as promised

It seems that for much of our trip, our road has been parallel with railroad tracks. I love a good train, which is a predilection passed to me from my dad. When I was a kid, we lived in Wisconsin. (another piece of the puzzle, cyber-stalkers, or a clever red herring? I'll not tell!!) One of the neighbor kids told me that the city was divided by the tracks, and that we were the last neighborhood on the good side of town. I don't know if this was true, but I remember the train; the sound of in cutting through the wind of a long cold winter; the rumble and hum of the tracks when the locomotive was comin' round the mountain; the wild turkey in the woods who lived by the route; how the track ran by the dump where we created new identities from the driver's licences that were ditched there; and how the train went right by Hubbard Park, where we played orphan and where people got married. I knew the tracks went way beyond there, too, into the rest of the world, and far, far away, to Alaska and Portugal and Fiji. Later, when I went off to college, and felt like I was sleeping under strange, strange skies, the sound of the train blowing by calmed me. Trains lead to adventure and the unknown, but they also have permanance and a sort of integrity. It's nice to know that the trains still run, and that the whistle still blows. I waved at every conductor I saw.

AE: I hope you liked these! I'll look for more as I go!

BONUS

View from the rearview for Big Poppa
View from the laundromat. When this is what you see when you are folding underwear, you know your life is pretty darn sweet!

The elk are leaving the building!

Lazing at Lake McD

Before I continue with the adventures in Glacier, let me just say that I have heard your complaints and concerns in re: the absence of the blog, and I am so happy that you are interested enough to care when I can't post. McAdams and I are flattered, and enjoy the opportunity to keep up with you, our peeps, no matter where we are. I understand my mom has finally read my blog; better late than never. Also, I'm happy you're enjoying it, Brandon; I was glad to hear you had tuned in. Makes me feel warm inside. But Jeez Louie, the pressure! You people are SO demanding! I got life to lead cha-cha! I'll get to it when I get to it!!!

OK, so: Lake McDonald. McAdams once wrote a poem, published in the Glacier Gazette, or something like that called "To A Good Life". It was real poetic and beautiful, and long, too. Suffice it to say, it was inspired by Lake McDonald. We got up, ate breakfast and walked down a small hill to the water. The beach is rocky, but the pebbles are smooth and small, so it's no hardship. We spread out our towels and I read a chapter aloud from the bear book, which is actually about a middle-aged writers' trek through the wilderness down the Appalachian Trail.
The book is funny, engaging, well-written and informative, with just enough tragic, ecological factoids to make the reader righteously indignant about the lack of interest and effort most of us put forth about our fragile environment. You should check it out. It's called A Walk In The Woods, by Bill Bryson. Then we'd eat a little snack, maybe the fresh cherries we got from the weird, mean, born-again man and his squinty-eyed son at the cherry shack with the outhouse with the crosses carved in the wall, or some pretzels, maybe a huckleberry beer. We slather each other in 30SPF sunscreen (chick-a baum, chick-a baum baum!!!) and talk about how hot we are, double entendre intended. We put our toes in the water, shiver, and make our way in, past the knees past the hips, to the belly (Doh! That's CO-OLD!!!). McAdams takes a deep breath and sets off, a strong, gliding breaststroke, and I turn flips in the shallow end. Then we do water aerobics (Look! The washing machine! Use the resistance to your advantage!) and then back to the beach. I read articles about Chef Ramsay and Don DeLillo, and McAdams tries to memorize every crag, every slope, every avalanche trail of the mountains in the distance. I do pilates on the pebbles, she snores daintily. We get hungry again, we trek up to the lodge, chat up an 18 year old waiter from Idaho, and rent a row boat. I learn that it's not so easy to row a boat. You have to aim and steer. I covered the same foot and a half of water at least twenty times by making a perfect circle, which greatly impressed all those on the shore. McAdams laughed.





Hours of good, clean fun later, after dinner, we walked slowly down the beach, taking in the sounds of the pebbles under our feet, the stream flowing into the lake, some kid playing guitar in the distance. The light fades, the clouds go pink, the mountains become black sentinals of the rippling waters, and the stars pop out, until they are shining freckles on the face of the sky. (Now that's some real fine poetry, I tell you what!)






We sleep in the little log cabin with the windows open. I hear no bears in the underbrush, and am at peace.



bonus! bonus! bonus! bonus! bonus!

HOLY S**THOUSE, BATMAN!


Next: Polebridge!