monday -> tuesday

On Monday we got undocumented Erich across the border and reached Seattle for lunch, where we picked up Padraig for the trip to New York. Once there, Tacoma girls we met in Vancouver actually called us, and we didn’t know what to do with them, so we drove to Idaho. On the way, we stopped at the most impressive highway SCENIC OVERLOOK I’ve seen yet, at the Columbia River in the central Washington desert. There, we met an old motorcycle dude who swore we should reroute to Oregon in order to see a Korean War veteran buried in a marble case surrounded by Stonehenge-arranged old cars (“It’s what Stonehenge would look like, if it didn’t fall down!”) While he rambled, his fat kid—in camouflage with a long mohawk—walked an opossum on a leash around the parking lot.

The geography of the state continued to surprise us, as the unexpectedly arid center gave way to fertile farmland. Then, Spokane, which we drove straight through. If you could transpose all the postindustrial-use land under the BQE in Brooklyn into one big square lot, you’d have Spokane. Nothing to see there, at least not on this trip.

Hunger set in, and we made it to Kellogg, Idaho, where we befriended the foul-mouthed teenage staff of the local Taco Express. Not everyone was that foul-mouthed, though, such as apologetic cashier Mike, whom Erich and I are going to hire as our drummer when he moves to New York. If he’s as good as he says he is…and he moves to New York.

We slept in a smoky little hotel in Missoula that night and drove to Butte for lunch. As soon as we got into town, I pulled the car over at a little overlook so we could shoot some pictures of the mining towers rusting away above the downtown skyline. Within four seconds of pulling over, Padraig found a handgun in the weeds. So we took some incriminating photos, threw it back in the weeds, and left to find lunch. We ended up at the Acoma, a pretty chic and expansive club-like diner. Being closer to the cows, both the cheddar and beef tasted exquisitely fresh. Erich eavesdropped on a conversation at the next table between local newsfolk, who used words like “edge” and “buzz” and “go-with.” Big news in Butte-e-ful Butte.

Next stop: Gardiner, Montana, near the Wyoming border. This little shithole is the northern gateway to Yellowstone, and it shows: everyone there works for the local tourism industry. This included the female gas station attendant, who had a four-minute conversation with each of us. Each time the conversation ended in “had a chance to go to a great art school and now I’ve been working in a gas station for four years.”

Speaking of gas stations, I’m at a Flying J in Gillette, Wyo., and it’s got free internet, so I’m going to post this now. I’ll fill you in on Yellowstone, train-chasin’, and the true meaning of the phrase “rest stop” next time.