It’s almost time for the annual Killeen-Ellison excursion to points North and West. For the first time ever, we’ll leave from the tiny Gainesville Hit or Miss Airport, assuming the plane remembers to show up. It costs more but it saves overnighting in Orlando and then driving almost two hours back home, usually in the middle of the night. Not to mention the aggravation. The security lines in O-town sometimes extend back to Possum Bluff and are populated by whiny children, scolding parents and people who cough a lot. Oh, and try to get a coffee at Starbuck’s. It’s easier for a wart-hog to pass through the eye of a needle than to secure a Caramel Frappuccino by your estimated time of departure.
The Gainesville terminal is the personification of small-time. Not that long ago, you had to retrieve your bags from an outside luggage rack not far from the landing strip, but at least it was quick. Now, you have time for a game of Parcheesi while you wait interminably for succor. Sometimes, half-empty late evening flights never even make it off the tarmac on Atlanta hops to G’ville due to “mechanical issues.” The other day, I couldn’t get out of the parking lot because a prior customer had jammed his ticket stub into the machine which raises the gate. Naturally, you can’t go to another outlet with six cars packed tightly behind you. After I did a little bit bit of banging on what looked like an unoccupied booth with the shades down, a little old lady in hair curlers and pajamas emerged and put her cigarette down long enough to extract the troublesome stub. She looked at me as if I was a panda torturer and went back inside in a huff.
That Toddlin’ Town
“On State Street, that great street, I just like to say….they do things they don’t do on Broadway.”---Fred Fisher/Frank Sinatra
Things like mowing down 9 citizens near an el station, beating and robbing a bunch more in broad daylight and making downtown Chicago look a lot like the O.K. Corral during exotic twilight gun battles between rival drug gangs. Frank says “You’ll have the time, the time of your life; I saw a man who danced with his wife…” but he doesn’t tell you the couple were dancing out of the way of bouncing bullets. We’re going there anyway. We’ll be staying out on Navy Pier, where only the hotels and restaurants rob you.
We really shouldn’t disparage the Chicago area. Wrigley Park, home of the Cubs, is a national treasure. I saw Stan (the Man) Musial play there even if was only poker in the dugout. Star Specter, my first thoroughbred to race, broke his maiden at Arlington Park in the Chi-town suburbs and we cashed many a winner’s check from Sportsman’s Park near Cicero. In those days, I stayed at a cheap motel in the Cicero area and was always amazed by the number of pickup trucks there in the daytime. Then one day, I turned on the TV and discovered wall-to-wall porn for the first time. You didn’t have to look for it, it was on every channel. A younger man might not believe this but porn can get unbelievably boring after eight hours.
A cartoonist friend of mine named Jay Lynch lived in the Old Town area of Chicago. Playboy magazine was in its heyday in those times and Jay was fascinated with the magazine and with Hugh Hefner, its founder. Lynch insisted we go take a look at the Playboy Mansion one day, so we did. There were a passel of fashionistas standing around out front doing things snobs do. Just as we were ready to leave, Hefner emerged in an ornate smoking jacket once apparently owned by the Sultan of Brunei. The small group rushed to meet him. To Jay Lynch’s utter horror, I raised my voice and piped up, “Mr. Hefner, Bruce Johnson says you owe him twenty dollars.” Bruce had hired me for a short time to edit his magazine, Chaff, and never tired of telling whoever would listen that he once loaned Hef the cash in a time of adversity.
Hefner brushed aside his worshippers, came down the stairs and handed me a twenty. “Tell Bruce I appreciate the loan,” he said, smiling. “Tell him to call me when he figures out what twenty years of interest amounts to.” Then he turned and casually strode back to his throng of admirers. I wouldn’t admit this to just anybody, but I kept the money.
Rapid City Outshaves Them All
I have been in all the United States, including Alaska and Hawaii, except for the Dakotas. Nothing personal, there was just no reason to visit. North and South Dakota are not on the way to anywhere and have little in the way of gripping attractions to draw one in. Oh sure, I know about Mount Rushmore, where the four presidents stare out in disbelief at the land they once presided over, wondering what happened. There is Fargo, of course, but even in the clever movie of the same name it pretty much lacked…how should we put it…panache. People rave about the Black Hills and General George Custer State Park but I am not convinced. Do I really want a ride on the Massacre Wagon, where real Indians attack from all sides with flaming arrows? I mean, it didn’t work out so well for Custer, right?
On the other hand, if a man is already in Chicago and on his way to Montana, why not South Dakota? For a change, it’s on the way and the hotels are reasonable. Last year, we paid $900 to stay in Big Sur for two nights. You can stay in Rapid City for a whole year for $900 and get coupons back. You probably didn’t know this but they actually have a roller coaster in Rapid City. A person can buy coaster tickets with dinner and a show for a mere $58.95. We’re kinda hoping the roller coaster ride comes before the dinner for obvious reasons. If not, at least the Fort Hays Chuckwagon meal is outside and properly named.
Meet Me In Montana
It’s just a hop, skip and a jump over Proud Boys Militia Headquarters and we’re in beautiful Montana, alias Big Sky Country. It’s so cold in Big Sky Country three-quarters of the year that in summer the entire population runs out of their igloos in tandem and goes crazy fishing, boating and hunting for Liberals. I have never been too interested in fishing because standing in a creek waiting for something to happen is like going on a date with a Catholic high-school girl. I feel that if I have a decent reputation in the fish community a dolphin might someday save me from an untoward fate whereas that same dolphin would just point and laugh at a despised fisherman.
You probably don’t know this but there are lots of exciting things to see in Montana that aren’t called Glacier National Park. One of them is the Richest Hill on Earth, also known as Butte. (Side note: Butte was originally called Butt, after Seymour Butt, its founder. The Butt Chamber of Commerce, desperate to change the town’s image, cleverly added an “e”. Isn’t it flabbergasting how many important historical facts you can learn simply by reading your Flying Pie every week?)
Butte is Montana’s most historic city. It was a mere patch of land until the late 1800s, then rose to prominence quickly as the copper mining industry flourished. For a modest period in history, Butte was the biggest city between Chicago and San Francisco and the culture of that era is on display at the World Museum of Mining, which centers around a restored mining camp with more than three dozen historic buildings and structures on display. It was part of an old community called Hell Roarin’ Gulch at the base of a now inactive silver and zinc mine. If you’re not claustrophobic you can take an underground tour of the mines. Siobhan will want to visit the Butte Mineral Museum because that’s the kind of girl she is. The place has more than 1,300 specimens, including a 27 1/2 troy ounce gold nugget and no, dear, they don’t let the visitors chip off a piece, however small.
Montana’s capital Helena was once known as Last Chance Gulch, named after a sad crew of disheartened gold-diggers who decided to have one final dig before giving up. Just like in the movies, they struck it rich. The city is an ideal base camp for exploring the nearby two-million-acre Helena--Lewis and Clark National Forest, which surrounds the entire town.
Lewis & Clark are a big draw in Montana. In addition to the giant forest, there are also the L&C Caverns between Butte and Bozeman, the Lewis and Clark Memorial in Fort Benton and the Lewis and Clark (“heavy loads accepted”) Laundromat in Big Foot. The caverns are among the largest limestone caves in the world and feature a special Winter Holiday Candlelight Tour throughout the colder months if you’re depraved enough to show up then. The park also offers a unique three-hour Wild Cave Tour “that involves crawling” for masochists in the crowd. We’ll be sure to dog-ear that page in the guidebook for Siobhan.
They also have lots of hot springs in Montana. We went to one a few years ago down a long dusty road near the town of Hot Springs. It was patrolled by a hard-put-upon woman who was swabbing the decks with a massive mop, waiting for a biker gang to show up. Five bucks to get in, six with a towel. I was having a pretty good time adjusting the hot water from the pipes when Siobhan the scientist started spouting off a litany of all the dangerous diseases and sea creatures in the water. Talk about your Betty Buzzkill. Even when she’s naked, she has a pointer in her hand, citing facts on the blackboard.
We haven’t been on the Beartooth Highway leading to Yellowstone, but our old pal Marty Jourard has and he gets the tremors just talking about it. The Beartooth is an All-American Road and a true marvel of engineering, with 68 miles of switchbacks and fantastic views up and over a mountain pass. The route begins at Red Lodge, one of Montana’s best small towns and climbs 5000 feet to reach Beartooth Pass (elevation 10,947 feet) on the other side of the Wyoming border, then proceeds west through Shoshone National Forest before reaching the northeast entrance to Yellowstone N.P. Take your pictures at the Roosevelt Arch if it isn’t still flooded and head back north. We’re talking Montana this week.
Going To The Sun
Sorry, advocates of Yosemite, Yellowstone and points south and east, but Glacier National Park is the most beautiful park in the country. The well-named Going To The Sun Road is a masterpiece of engineering and design, weaving up and over colorful mountains, down into lush valleys and past the bluest lakes in several states in its 51-mile bender from West Glacier to St Mary. If you’re particularly shaky about great heights with fearful dropoffs and no railings like, say, Siobhan Ellison, you might want to drive from east to west so that you’re traveling along the canyon wall for most of the trip.
The GTTSR tops out at Logan Pass on the Continental Divide. where you get to share the modest parking lot with brazen mountain goats who are not the least bit impressed with your presence. There’s a very nice trail up there which leads to Hidden Lake. You will actually encounter snow on this pathway, even in July. Prepare to walk softly and carry a big stick.
Near the eastern terminus of the Going To The Sun Road is the ancient and fabulous Many Glaciers Hotel, built in 1915 by the Great Northern Railway to lure tourists to the shores of Glacier’s Swiftcurrent Lake. It’s easier to get a Papal Visit than it is to nab a room at the hotel but if you try a year ahead or present a personal reference from the Babb Militia you have a shot. The nearby Grinnell Glacier is fading but still hanging on and is reachable by a long and winding trail of the same name.
Maybe we’ll see you in friendly Kalispell, home of the best small-town airport in the land. Or riding by in one of the park’s signature red limos. Or spending a fortune in less than an hour in ritzy Whitehorse. Or gazing up at four waterfalls sliding down the mountains above the Avalanche Lake picnic area. Drop over and say hello. We’ll be the couple in the oxygen masks.
That’s all, folks….
