Missoula Oblongata

I begin by extending a warm and heartfelt congratulations to Ms. Amy Elizabeth Conner, who has now successfully joined the burgeoning ranks of the certifiably educated youth of this country. You will find that your degree opens all sorts of new doors for you, paving the path to such illustrious careers as, say, dishing up pie in a tourist café, to lathe operator in a baby carrot factory, or, even better, several more years of school! I'm proud of your hard work, and excited for the road that lays ahead of you, whatever that may be.

Amy's moment, in all her dorky splendor.

The passing of a rather tedious Saturday morning of ceremonies and barely-audible speeches was eased by the company of parents, grandparents, siblings and nephews, dinner and wine with the family, and, of course, the requisite evening bender with my sisters and some of Amy's friends. The downtown area was awash with the effluvium of the University of Montana's newest graduating class and their restless relatives, funk bands tearing off proverbial roofs, and people looking to celebrate the beginning of warm, leisurely summer nights. The whiskey shots flowed like wine, hips swayed like trees in the wind, college students stumbled like, well, college students, and Amy, bless her heart, braved it all like the trooper she is, despite an interminable case of bronchitis.

Of course, dorkiness begets dorkiness.

Following the next morning's diaspora of family members to their respective corners of the Northwest, Amy, my dad and I took the opportunity to hit the road for a couple of days, rejoicing in the fact that none of us had any pressing responsibilities to tend to, save the savouring of one another's company and our surroundings.

Our first destination was Wildhorse Island, a remote state park in the middle of Flathead Lake, the largest natural freshwater lake west of the Mississippi (how's that for qualifiers?). (For centuries, the native Salish Indian tribe would store their horses on the island to discourage raids from the neighboring Blackfoot tribe, and a small herd inevitably turned feral.) The island is rife with bighorn sheep, coyote, deer, and yes, still a few wild horses. When I was thirteen (and with my permission, just to clarify), my dad took me to the island for a vision quest, leaving me to fend for myself for a few days without any food. Sadly, mid-May is a bit early for snow melt here, and the lake's level was too low to be able to rent a boat, and we were never able to make it to the island. Instead, we drove the 90-mile loop around the lake, and wound our way up to the top of Chief Cliff, which provides a spectacular overlook of the area. We crossed paths with a black bear and mountain lion (first real sighting of my life!), and found a small herd of bighorn sheep at the top.

Flathead Lake and Wildhorse Island from the top of Chief Cliff.

From there we wended our way into the rugged Mission Mountains for the night, and through the National Bison Range the next morning, passing through plains of grazing herds of bison and antelope.

Morning dawns on the Mission Mountains.

I'm back in Missoula now, preparing to hit the road again first thing tomorrow morning, just in time for more rain, rain, rain. In the meantime, I'm reclining with a beer and a mimosa, enjoying the sweet smell of the fresh precipitation, the sporadic crack of lightning and roll of thunder, and the memories of a week well-spent back home in the wild, wild West.