A beautiful nothing

A few miles after Montana sign, a traveling thought walks into my mind. I get a glimpse at a couple, smoking their morning cigarette on the sidewalk, going I don’t know where, maybe like an early bird ritual. I am stricken by this fleeting moment when our paths cross without a look. I am only passing by, wanderer in the big world, when the world might fit in this daily walk, in this passing town from where their roots have never traveled.

Landscapes are mostly the same from Idaho to Montana, as peaceful even if everybody likes to trash Idaho, only good to grow potatoes. But at this corner, as I am heading to the 212 junction towards Bison National Range, after my fleeting non encounter, landscapes get new drawings. Montana stands and shows its difference.
The playful fog starts to reveal some rocks and I try to print in my heart a piece of reddish landscape where hills wind through the haze along a river. A few trees like an isle add to the drawing.
I get to Bison Nation Range, surprised to find it open, surprise not to be alone. But happy, because I sometimes feel so lonely and stupid to drive North America in the middle of winter.
The whole parc is foggy though… I can’t see the meadow in front of me, no hope for a bison then! However, I meet some deer, a lot of deer actually. I think it is completely stupid to call a park Bison NR and put giant picture of it on the sign if you can’t see any bloody bison in there! And I remember seeing pictures of bloody bison in there, where are they!? A bit disappointed, I am happy to have met some when I was crossing Northern BC.
And to simmer down my anger, the sun that have finally got rid of the morning haze, show me some bison in the heights. Very high. So far. The upper road, closer to their pasture, is closed for winter leaving them to their beloved solitude.
The tour still gives me a beautiful sample of Montana : Blue Mountains on the horizon, hilly meadows and huge homesteads nearby.

This multiple scenery disappears in the sun at the next junction, as I am driving towards the rain.
The colors of my wandering are autumnal when it is already winter time. Multi-color leaves flew away a long time ago, yet trees have kept fall shades. Because fire weed, yellowed by summer, browned by winter, remains. Because every wood has its color: orange weeping willows, red blueberry bushes, green evergreens. The whole beautifully contained in a green ranch surrounded by pink willows.

As I start to get bored, or maybe just tired, my arrival in Polson with an endless view on an unexpected lake is breathtaking. The day takes a turn.
I stop like I have planned in the little town, wander in Main Street looking for an extra blanket and stop in a second hand shop where I meet Bobbie, such a precious and kind soul to whom I tell my whole life story, eager of words since I have not talked in days. I buy there a Christmas hairband for my friend Hannah and Bobbie insists to give me some protection in case I was attacked…. She is so worried when I am so laid back, but she is so moving I can’t not accept this kind gesture.
I linger here when I was only supposed to drive by. Streets are getting ready for Christmas parade and invite me to stay. The day ends so slowly: I go to the library, write my adventures and reorganize my itinerary since Yellowstone is closed for the season. After the lighted floats, I drink my first beer along my traveling ink. Then, I am cheerfully kidnapped by two American girls from Montana, willing to party, too much for my empty stomach. I spend a typical Montana night filling my heart with joy and my head with hang over.

My day starts with a bad taste of yesterday beer in my mouth, in the rain, later than usual since Rockies time zone makes me linger in bed. After a frozen night despite my new blanket, it is difficult to start. But I go. I am talked about the Grizzlies’ game as I am filling up my tank; who are they?! Another adventure awaits for me anyway.
I ride the rainy road towards the Glaciers, following Flathead Lake’s majestic drawing on my left. Nearby mountains disappeared in the clouds on my right. The journey is not memorable, except for the river replacing the lake. Dark turquoise, surrounded by maroon rocks, purple trees and a red road. The sky is weeping all its sadness, devouring a part of the heights in its tears. I still give a try to the detour on West Glacier National Park, McDonald Lake running without any summer mountains’ reflects though. Only trees and black snow scenery. I would stop for a walk, but the rain. But my heart is drifting East for once. Thus, I turn around because Sun road is closed for winter and I meet Flathead River again, its turquoise darkened by this monochrome landscape. And suddenly, the sun hits my forehead; suddenly, I realize it is drawing a mountain and not a cloud. Fleeting gazing soon disappeared in the fog. Sun resists though, fiercely piercing clouds, creating a miracle I would not have dared to hope for.
I get to the East Entrance of Glacier National Park and I glimpse at some mounts, I can gaze at some snowy tops. I drive towards Medicine Lake hoping for a short hike. I can see the lower one. In one piece. You could think it is a piece of land if the sun was not reflected in such a peculiar way. My flight to this frozen world is stopped by a closed road, preventing me from any waterfall or new lake. It starts to heavily snow from a strange sun hiding in the peaks and I only have my words to intertwine the shiny white and the end of the world in my heart. I am completely helpless…. Glaciers are fleeing away…
Do I really want to drive to St Mary, 30 miles north, most likely to give me the same missed landscapes? The road is closed with snow and fences anyway, it decides for my indecisive soul.

It is now time to head South, with a heavy heart and sadness in my eyes. I am exhausted, still not fixed from my hangover. I ride US-89, direction a ghost town that I won’t reach today but I am getting closer.

And Montana suddenly rocks my world. My day is enlightened… I am discovering a new fascination for North American landscapes, I am exploring new peculiar scenery, absolutely unreal and alien. I am blown by endless Plains’ frozen wind as Ennio Morricone enchants my heart with his opportune and beautiful music.
Those who say/think/write there is no beauty in nothing, never have crossed Montana on US-89 by such a peculiar light on December day. Because nothing becomes everything. It is a beautiful nothing. The nothing of my failed day becomes an everything absolutely beautiful.
How does it start? I think it starts with an amazing and colorful sky above blue mountains in the far, as I am driving down half snow half yellow plains, as I rise upon the world from those huge treeless plateaux. I feel fulfilled, I would drive endlessly in this light and this perfect balance of the worlds.
I am totally mesmerized by Montana, by the yellow plains’ simple beauty, covered with snow in some places and endlessly offered to both horizons, sparkling with sun from time to time, drawing some pictures in the clouds in other places, revealing a black cattle or loads of horses, and even a bison clan once. Those prairies whose snow sometimes look like lakes.
And as I get a glimpse of a dappled horse’s ass with Birdy in my ears, I break into tears for the beauty my sister is missing. In this moment, I miss her in such an unbearable and unspoken way. I would like her, my sweet rider, to be with me, on the passenger sit to look at those horses’ field. It is such a powerful and peaceful feeling.

The road keeps going, similar and transformed, the sun is changing color, new blue ranges are revealed. I think I had an idea of Montana, not exactly this one, and yet, when I gaze at it for the first time, it is like it was exactly what I was expecting… Even unique and lonely houses in the middle of huge homesteads try to fit in the scenery. To make it even more beautiful. Settled on a hill side, offering the perfect contrast with the plain and the mountain on the horizon.
All of sudden, escaping me from my dreams, three does await for me on the middle of the road. I would never have thought there would be deer around, since there is no forest nor tree. From there, they keep company to domesticated cattle.
Moon softly rises on my left as the sun plays with clouds and creates red shadows on the moonless horizon. I don’t understand how it is possible! The snow might create weird reflections.
I drive by a few towns, where American flags proudly float, where I would like to stop in order to discover another version of Montana on the edge of a beer, to blend for a minute, but yesterday frightened me, but I wouldn’t dare… Thus, I end my day in a clear twilight thanks to the snow, followed by the moon, so happy of this new piece of wild world offered to rest my dreams.

I awake completely frozen once more, so much there is frost inside the car, so much I don’t even take time to look for a deer. I start my engine and fly blown by my heater. I am quite upset with my low finances, I feel a weight as heavy as Montana in my stomach, soon rescued by new plans.
The moon doesn’t show me the way anymore, only a cloudy fog shines. When I reach Interstate 15 though, the weather changes as quickly as the scenery, as it wanted to fit in. Montana high plateaux with mountains in the far are over. I am now going through some rocks, I am digging some mounts. And on the other side, it is yellow and flat again. Or white, pierced by some yellow fire weed. The snow is so light on the road, it creates tiny sands storm, it is like a small tornado in front of me. Then, it is grey again. Then, it shines again.

I head to Bannack ghost town whose timeline I don’t utterly understand…. Was the town abandoned in the 1870’s once the last gold nuggets had been found, only reason the town was even settled? Or was it later, during the next century? It was for sure a gangsters’ den, led by Henry Plummer. I don’t know if I truly feel ghosts in my heart but this snowed sun gives another taste to the experience.
After a cold tuna sandwich, it is time to actually reach Idaho. And as the sun takes over, I write Montana’s contrasts in my head. Soft and sharp. Yellow and black and white. A bit flat but never too much. Always a hill to draw some light.
There is this nothing, this huge nothing, bigger than Yakima for sure. A yellow nothing with a sparkling road in the middle, running to new mountains with new colors. White. Low and yet… Cut in their race by Idaho’s fog.