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!!!!