Gulch

Montana Quarters

The Cowboy leaned over and thumped an empty shot glass down on the wooden surface of our table.   "What's Patrón?" he asked.

"Tequila", my brother answered.

"It's shit," said the Cowboy.

He, as young cowboys at bars in Montana often do, was wearing a wide brimmed black cowboy hat and a western-styled collared shirt. He was clean shaven, chiseled jawed, and very drunk.

Earlier in the evening, the country western band in the front of the bar had dedicated a song to one of his friends on the occasion of her 21st birthday.  The friend in question had a very squeaky voice and, to the amusement of the whole bar, was very excited to have reached the legal drinking age.

"This next song is for Jessica who is turning 21 tonight," the band said, unenthusiastically.

"Squeak! Oh. My. SQUEEAKING. God. SQUEEEEAK!" said Jessica with the loud sort of zest for life that only comes with finishing your 15th drink of the hour.

The Cowboy thumped another shot glass filled with a murky liquid on our table. "Here, drink this," the cowboy said to our table, which consisted of me, Jen, my brother, and his girlfriend.

Our table was silent. I made eye contact with my brother across the table.  He shrugged. His girlfriend giggled. No one made a move for the shot glass.

"Ah, come on. I ain't drugged it," said the Cowboy. He paused, and then looked at us suspiciously. "You guy's ain't from Nebraska, are you?" 

Our table was silent.

"Okay, here's what we are going to do," the Cowboy said, holding up a coin. "We are going to play quarters.  Whoever bounces it in gets to say who has to drink the shot."

He then flipped the quarter so that it bounced off our table and then hit the side of the shot glass.

"Quarters?" I thought to myself, frantically wishing I had attended the sort of parties in college that would have allowed me to develop the proper social skills for such a situation or, at the very least, helped me develop better hand eye coordination.

The Cowboy picked up the quarter and handed it to me. I bounced the quarter off the table and it spun sideways and landed on the floor, which was glistening with a wet layer of melted snow and mud that had been tracked in from the parking lot.

The Cowboy narrowed his eyes and slowly reached down and picked up the coin. He wiped it on his jeans and handed it to Jen.  I could tell there was no way she was going to drink a mystery liquid, given to her by a stranger, containing a quarter that had recently been on the floor. She bounced it off the table, it clinked the glass way below the rim, and landed back on the table.

I let out a breath of relief. I wasn't sure if she'd pick the cowboy or me to drink if she had landed it in the shot glass. The Cowboy handed the quarter to my brother. Clunk, clink,  miss.

The quarter was passed to my brother's girlfriend. Clunk, miss.

The cowboy handed the quarter back to me.  This time I managed not to hit the floor.

Jen picked the quarter up from where it had landed on her lap. "You know," she said to the Cowboy, "There's no way in hell anyone here's going to drink that shot."

The Cowboy looking puzzled, glanced at me.  I avoided eye contact by staring at the shot glass. Jen tossed the quarter and it hit the table and fell to the side of the shot glass. She picked up the quarter and handed it to my brother.

Clunk, thunk, the quarter was back on the floor.  The Cowboy reached down, picked up the coin, and handed it to my brother's girlfriend

"SQUEEAK! Squeeak!," said Jessica from the nearby table and the Cowboy looked over.

My brother's girlfriend, sensing an opening, lashed out lightening fast and dunked the quarter into the shot glass. It floated lazily to the bottom of the 3 ounces of murky liquid, leaving what I thought looked like a greasy trail behind it.

The Cowboy's head snapped back around.

Everyone at our table, as well an older couple sitting at the table next to us, cheered. The Cowboy peered at the quarter resting on the bottom of the shot glass.  "Huh," he said. "There's no way."

He peered at us and then turned towards the older couple he apparently thought were neutral observes sitting next to us.

"Did she really get it in?" he asked.

"Oh yeah," said the man.

"It was amazing," said the woman.

"You have to drink it," said my brother's girlfriend.

The Cowboy looked at the older couple, who just happened to be my parents. They nodded and shrugged as if to say, "Sorry those are the rules."

The cowboy picked up the shot and in one smooth motion downed the alcohol.  He sucked on the quarter for a moment, puffed out his cheeks and spat it out.  The now shiny coin sailed across the table in a perfect arc and landed down the front of Jen's dress.

Jen's face went red and she dug a hand down into the front of her dress.

"Wait," the Cowboy said, "Did I just get that down your …"

Jen's pulled her fist out of her shirt and chucked the quarter at the Cowboy. My parents and everyone at our table broke out laughing.  The Cowboy looked at us and then chuckled hesitantly, seeming somewhat unsure if we were laughing at him or Jen.

"Squeak," said Jessica. The Cowboy nodded at us and turned away.

A couple minutes later, the Cowboy turned around and thumped a glass of something that looked tropical and fruity on our table.  He held up a quarter.

"Okay," he said. "Here's what we are going to do…" he trailed off. He peered at our table, looking at each person.

"Ah screw it," he said as he took his drink back and turned around.

Exploring The Good Life: Recent Updates to the Guides

My back was to the jazz trio; however, the cafe was so intimate that their slightly downbeat version of "Fly Me To The Moon" filled the room, combining and weaving with the conversations of the nearby tables to create a joyous energy.  In front of me was a slice of chocolate cake and a beer and I realized that I had stumbled into a bit of the good life. And, importantly, it wasn't located in some exotic or far-away place. Instead it was located less than a block away from where we live.

Jen and I started the travel guide section of this site, Gulch Guides, as a way to let readers find our travel recommendations without having to read through all of our, well, mental wanderings on this blog. Lately, though, we've been sticking close to home and have been happy to find a lot of the good life right here.  We are constantly adding to the Guides and I thought I'd cross-post some of the newest entries on what we consider the good life to be:

Detour Dessert Lounge (in Victoria)

Sometimes, only a late night slice of chocolate cake will do. Detour Dessert Lounge (14 Centennial Square / 250-298-8308) is an intimate place that serves not only delicious and moist cake but also a whole variety of other decadent treats. Combining a slice of cake (such as "the Lola", a chocolate cake layered with Bavarian icing and raspberry and topped with vanilla bean fudge) with a glass of wine or a beer while a live jazz band plays is a perfect way to slow down and really enjoy life. Detour has a large selection of vegan/vegetarian desserts and they have nicely balanced their menu to include sugar and gluten free items so that no one can use dietary restrictions as an excuse not to indulge.

In addition to desserts, they also have a small menu of regular food such as salads and nachos and they also serve good coffee. Most items are under $10. Detour is located in Victoria's Centennial Square and, despite the strip mall exterior, it has a sophisticated and hip feel on the inside and often features live music.

The Parrot Confectionery (in Helena)

The Parrot Confectionery (42 North Last Chance Gulch / 406-442-1470) first opened its doors in 1922 and has since reached near legendary status in Helena, across the state, and beyond for its handmade chocolates. The Parrot has been owned and operated by the same family since it opened and it feels like little has changed in this candy store/soda fountain/lunch café. There’s a jukebox, cozy booths, and a long counter behind which they serve up real soda fountain drinks like cherry phosphates and ice cream milkshakes.

The Parrot is most famous for their candy. They make over 120 different types of fine sweets and hand dipped chocolates, which they also ship worldwide. However, many locals go there for a different reason: they serve some of - if not the - best chili in town (it’s no sense asking, they keep the recipe secret). The Parrot is one of those types of special places that give a sense of permanence and stability that just doesn't normally exist in the modern world. So the next time it’s really cold and you’re feeling down, head to the Parrot and get a milkshake and bowl of chili, and the world will start to look pretty good again.

Sabri Naanwich (in Victoria)

Sometimes fusion food doesn’t have to be highbrow. Sabri Naanwich (1310 Douglas / 250-382-9668) combines the concepts of Indian food and sub sandwich shops in a way that works so well that one is left wondering why it isn’t more common. Sabri Naanwich is set up like many fast food style sandwich or wrap joints, only with an Indian flair: instead of bread, the whole thing starts with a warm piece of naan. Then, rather than deli meat as the main part of your sandwich, you get to pick from a number of different Indian-style dishes such as butter chicken, lamb and ginger, or garbanzo bean curry (at various spice levels). You then get to choose from an assortment of traditional sandwich pickings such as lettuce, peppers, tomatoes, and less traditional Indian condiments such as mango chutney or raita. The whole thing gets built before you and is served like a wrap. It is also delicious and cheap – most naandwiches range from $5 to $7 dollars.

Ordering a naanwich with butter chicken with jalapeños and mango chutney is a perfect combination of spicy and sweet and thus just might be in the running for the most perfect sandwich ever. Sabri’s advertises that naanwiches are fairly healthy - none of the meats are processed and there are many options for vegetarians and vegans. Be warned that the shop closes early - around 6pm - most nights.

Scenes from a Wedding

It was shortly after the band started playing – after she had danced the customary dances with her dad and with her new husband – that Jen slipped off into the darkness beyond the stage. When she came back to the dance floor, she was no longer wearing her shimmery, copper colored wedding dress. In its place, she had on long pants, a jean jacket, a wool hat, socks and tevas.

“Going down the road, feeling bad….Going where the climate suits my clothes,” the band sang, their breath forming icy clouds in the freezing air.

In a corner of the dance floor, a line of people shadowed the dance moves of Lucho, who had been taking hip-hop dance lessons and wasn’t concerned about the lack of hip-hop music. The dancers, clad in fleece and tennis shoes, twisted and spun. They appeared to be doing a country line-dance – their elaborate twists and lack of hand placement on belt lines being the only betrayal of style. Next to them, my high school algebra teacher twirled my elementary PE teacher away from him in a classic jitterbug spin.

“Some people come here to fiddle and dance, some come here to tarry. Some come here to fiddle and dance, I come here to marry,” sang the band.

Away from the lighted tents and cabins, aside from the laughter and music, a cold Montana sky rippled with stars.

---

Brace took off his sunglasses and let the bright afternoon sun shine into his eyes. He looked down at the transcript of the ceremony that he had taped into a dictionary and then looked out at the crowd seated on the hillside before him.

Brace turned to us and continued the ceremony, “What is the meaning of marriage? In these times, when couples like yourselves have been committed to each other for 13 years, what does it mean to be married? It is said that in the right relationships, you get married in your heart and mind long before you do in any ceremony and I believe that this is true of the two of you. However, the idea of marriage, of going through a wedding ceremony is not a mere formality, it is not something done as a social construct, nor," he paused, "is it done to make your parents happy."

The crowed laughed.

"A wedding and a marriage," Brace continued, "is a public declaration of a commitment. It is one thing to be together the way you have been for the last 13 years, it is another thing entirely to publicly declare that you will always be together. And so, Will and Jen, you are here to reaffirm the bond between you and to make a lifelong commitment to each other.”

Behind my eyes, a great pressure welled up. A lack of sleep and a deep joy in having so many friends together mixed with a perfect sense of happiness about standing with Jen in the sunshine. Strong emotions waded into the warm shallows of my psyche and splashed their way to the surface. My nose began to run and I felt a tear trickle down my cheek.

Jen stood across from me, looking radiant in her dress. She looked straight into my eyes and gave my hands a squeeze.

“Ah, hell,” I thought to myself, “I’m losing it.”

Someone handed me a blue handkerchief.

---

Matt stood in front of the tables and held the mike up close to his mouth.

“The difference between getting married after thirteen months and thirteen years is that after thirteen months, on your wedding night, you go off and have a private night. After thirteen years, you sleep in an unheated cabin with a dozen of your friends.”

“Here, here!” someone yelled and everyone laughed.

---

I hurried down the hill from the bathhouse. The fall air felt crisp against my hastily shaved face. As entered the cabin, it sunk in that most people I had just seen in the short stroll were already in their dress clothes.

“Well,” Jen asked, “what do you think?”

She stood in front of me and I saw the wedding dress for the first time. She looked beautiful

“Oh,” I said. “It’s brown.”

“What!”

“Uh, I mean you look beautiful.”

Jen looked at me dubiously and then turned her attention to searching for something on the top bunk. The concrete floor beneath my feet was freezing. I dug through my backpack looking for my dress socks and belt.

“Do you have a mirror in your toiletry case?” Jen asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Can you go find a girl and ask them to bring me a mirror?” she asked and I realized that I had forgotten both my socks and belt back in town.

---

The marriage between Jen and I started on a warm afternoon, on a grassy hillside next to a small lake in Montana. While it was not held in a soaring cathedral or temple, grandiose mansion, or imposing city hall, it was held in a place and moment of extreme wealth.

That wealth came not from the beautiful Montana country side, but from the friends and family who had gathered on that hillside to witness the blooming of our marriage. Montana is not an easy place to get to – and the countryside less so – and we were deeply honored by the people who went through a considerable amount of time and energy to get there to make that day and weekend extra special for Jen and I.

And we rewarded that effort by putting people to work. Whether it was cooking breakfast, making decorations, doing Jen’s hair, giving people rides to and from town, brewing coffee, delivering the cake, cleaning up, playing with small children, lending sleeping bags, or a myriad of other chores – a great amount of work was done by a great amount of people.

So thank you to everyone that came. Thank you for not just an audience at our wedding but for being participants – thank you for turning a simple ceremony into something magnificent.

It was an amazing way to get married.

Scientific Observations

From the Past 30 Days of Field Research

North Idaho

The pale girl with dreadlocks who sat across from us in the hot springs pointed vaguely towards the hillside. “The St. John’s Wort over there is my favorite patch of St. Johns in the whole Pacific Northwest,” said the girl, whose name was Rain.

“Oh, you planted that?” asked the one-armed guy who was also sharing the hot springs. His left arm ended shortly after his elbow. He held a can of cheap beer in his right hand.

“ No, no,” Rain said, with a hint of annoyance in her voice, “it grows naturally. I just like to visit it.”

“What does it do?” The one armed guy asked.

“It relaxes you; it’s really good for the brain. It regrows myelin,” Rain stated.

“Is that so?” said the one-armed guy when she finished. He swigged his beer, transfered the can from his good arm to a nook between his stub and his body, and then used his good hand to wipe some foam away from his mouth.

Portland, OR

My friends’ newborn baby looked up at me with giant eyes.

“Wow,” I said. “She’s really small.”

“Yeah, well, that’s how they come out.”

Victoria, BC

“What type of food do you like to eat?” I asked the tall Spaniard sitting across from me in broken Spanish. We were sitting in the dark, cellar-like space of The Mint restaurant, and I squinted at the menu, trying to read it by the flickering candle light.

“Como ninos,” Jordi replied.

My mind sluggishly translated: Como - “I eat”, ninos - “children”.

Jen and I met Jordi and his wife Ester, who were from Barcelona, for the first time earlier that day. They were cousins of a friend of ours and they were on their honeymoon and traveling through North America for the first time. Owing a karmic debt to the many people who have let Jen and I sleep at their places while we traveled, we had invited them to stay with us for the night they were in Victoria.

“Uh, you eat children?” I ask hesitantly.

Jordi laughed. “No, no, comimos como ninos.” We eat like children.

“Ah”, I said and took a drink of my beer.

Montana

After the professional comedian finished her show, my aunt approached her.

“Have you ever thought about performing at funerals?” asked my aunt.

“Uh…” said the comedian, a friend of the family.

“My husband is dying, you know,” My aunt continued.

“Oh, I heard that,” replied the comedian. “I’m very sorry.”

“Well,” my aunt paused. “Think about it. You have my number.”

In Which I Remember The Middle of Nowhere

When I was not but a boy, my older brother and father used to drag me out towards Eastern Montana to go antelope hunting. If you’ve not been to Montana, it’s a lopsided state: most of the mountains and trees and people reside in the western half. As you drive east across the state the roads get emptier, the sky gets bigger, and the land gets flatter until finally you believe that you have reached the end of the world, which conveniently enough, is marked with a sign saying “Welcome to North Dakota”.

On these hunting trips, we didn’t quite go that far. Instead, we would load up our sky blue pickup truck, point it east, and drive just a little beyond the center of the state. We’d follow small highways and single lane roads until the mountains became rolling, golden hills. Our destination was a ranch near the town of Two Dot, which like many such places in Montana, gains its cityhood based on the fact that it has a bar - the “World Famous" Two Dot Bar in this case.

As we got farther away from the main roads, we’d occasionally pass large slabs of concrete that were completely surrounded by chain link fences and razor wire. There was usually a security camera mounted on a pole. These places, of course, were nuclear missile silos and were the topic of much discussion back at my schoolyard.

My schoolmates and I firmly believed that our country’s enemies had their missiles pointed at our missiles. However, after much debate and discussion, we rationalized that the Montana silos were far enough from our school that, when the enemy missiles hit them, we would not be vaporized instantly in the blast. However, our school was close enough that we would probably soak up a lot of radiation, but not close enough that the radiation would give us cool super powers. Instead, according to the detailed maps that we drew, we lived comfortably inside the “horrible mutant zone". I hoped that when nuclear war came, the extra eyes that would no doubt sprout all over my body wouldn’t need as thick glasses as my regular eyes did.

The only silo on the ranch where we hunted, though, was an old grain silo. The ranch was large, perhaps as big as some European countries or New England states. The main road led to the farmhouse which, to my continual disappointment, looked exactly like any regular split-level house found in my neighborhood. We’d pull up in front of the house and the stooped and tough looking old man who owned the place would come out and make a little small talk with my dad.

He'd tell us where he had seen antelope on the ranch and how successful other hunters had been. His tired and gruff manner intimidated me but also reminded me a bit of my grandparents. “Be sure to close the gates after you,” he’d always tell us before we drove off.

We’d follow the dirt road through a field filled with rusty farm equipment, their skeletal frames looking like the debris from some future robot war. We’d drive down the dirt road, stopping here and there to shut pasture gates behind us, until the road could no longer be called a road, having declined into two parallel trails that wound through the hills. The tracks crossed a couple of streams and here my dad would stop to put the truck into four-wheel drive, then he'd plunge the truck into the creek, and drive up the steep far bank.

After it seemed like we had driven for hours since we stopped at the farm house - crossing out of our world and into new land without civilizations or houses or anything man made - we’d reach a long valley stretched out between two tall ridges that ran parallel like frozen waves. We’d drive between these waves to the far end of the valley where another truck or two would be parked.

The owners of these trucks were other hunters, guys who worked with my dad. They were rough looking, with knives on their belts, thick wool coats and hats. They were the type of men who could look up at the sky and predict the next day’s weather accurately. “No clouds tonight,” they’d say, “It’ll be colder tomorrow, maybe a little snow in the afternoon." I had a hard time picturing them working in the office where my dad worked.

At night, we’d gather as a group around a campfire, or if it was too cold for a fire, we’d cram into a small camper that one of my dad’s friends had on the back of his truck. They’d talk about past hunting trips and tell the occasional off color joke. Away from the fire, the night sky was brilliant, filled with thousands of stars that did not exist in the sky over my house.

The next morning, the hunt began.

Pronghorn antelope are the second fastest animals in the world, they can reach speeds of up to 60 miles per hour. Only the cheetah is faster. However, that didn’t seem to stop us from believing that we could chase them down. Our hunting strategy in theory was this: get up before the sun, climb to the top of the ridge. Sit on top of the ridge until sunrise, maybe drink some hot chocolate from our thermos, and then shoot an antelope that wanders by below.

Our actual hunting experience was this: climb the ridge before dawn. When the sun finally rises, notice that there are no antelope anywhere to be seen. Climb down that ridge and then climb up the next ridge, see some small white spots way off in the distance that might be antelope or a snow patch or a rock. Run as fast as possible to the next ridge, see that it is an antelope, run to a closer ridge, watch as the antelope run away at just near the speed of light, then take a shot at their rapidly disappearing white butts. Repeat until exhausted.

Sometimes this strategy worked, a lot of the time it didn’t. That afternoon we’d reverse our path and make our way back home. We’d drive on dirt tracks until a road solidified. We’d drive past the ranch house, past the missile silos, past world famous bars in small towns. We'd drive until we reached mountains and then cities and then, eventually, we’d be home.

When I was not but a boy, my older brother and father used to drag me out towards Eastern Montana to go antelope hunting. It occurs to me that I haven’t been to the middle of nowhere in a long time. I wonder if it is still populated by animals that can run faster than cars and men who can tell things by looking at the sky. I wonder if under slabs of concrete lay silos filled with the end of the world. I wonder if, in the middle of nowhere, there is still a sea of frozen, golden hills. I wonder if I will every go back.