Big Brew Country

Montana might rank as the perfect microbrewery state.

Go ahead and take offense, Coloradans. Sure, you might have more small-batch breweries. But for Montana's tiny population, it has a staggering amount of homegrown brews, covering the full spectrum of the brewing world. Missoula, Helena, Polson, Hamilton, Belt, Bozeman, Belgrade ...I drank beer from every town in this here land.

For the most part, I stuck with sessions beers. The state's brewers seemed to have a better grasp of styles often disregarded by America's extreme beer movement. Enjoy double IPAs and smoke Russian Imperial stouts all you want, but you can't drink that stuff and hang for the long haul; it's worse than whiskey. By keeping alcohol content to 8 percent or less, I could consume copious amounts of ale and lager yet never go to sleep more than slighly tipsy.

Seventeen beers in eight days might sounds like a meager amount, but only a few were singles - most came as six-packs and one case had to get finished before I boarded an eastbound airplane on Sept. 20.

The only IPA I sampled came from Oregon (Deschutes Inversion IPA), part of a conscious decision to sample different styles to see how well I could fare with lagers, ESBs and Belgian whites.

Once I sipped the last of the four I stuffed into my suitcase – a Big Hole Mystic White – it was time for this massive log of beer experience to go electronic. We’ll go from the top…

Cold Smoke Scotch Ale
Kettlehouse Brewery, Missoula, MT
Sampled: Sept. 13 and Sept. 19, 2009 (16 oz. can and pint at the Pour House)
This brew serves up a little biscuit crispness before hitting the Highlands. The malty richness tosses out molasses, coffee and chocolate before the finish gives a little flowery herbal display with spearmint emerging from the pack. Whether from can (don’t let it scare you) or the tap, Kettlehouse pretty much nailed the style.
Rating: 8/10

Plum Street Porter Bozeman
Bozeman Brewing Co., Bozeman, MT
Sampled: Step. 14, Montana AleWorks
Once I got over my initial disappointment that this wasn’t a plum porter – somebody, please brew one, I’m curious – I realized Bozeman produced one of the state’s few porters, and a good one at that. Plum Street Porter has a luxurious, velvety paired with the nuttiness of roasted malt. Finishes very clean as the roasted character fades into a molasses finished embellished by some welcome cherry. Not a world changer, but Plum Street Porter definitely works for a session or three.
Rating: 7/10

Beltian White
Harvest Moon Brewing Company, Belt, MT
Sampled: Sept. 14, Montana AleWorks
Wow, Celis White has a fresh competitor brewed just outside of Great Falls. The banana-clove I expected mingle adeptly with round licorice. Better yet, the licorice evolves into a splendid finish of plum (Yeah, Belt) and blueberry. I was ready to disregard this brewery thanks to the unfortunate name of flagship brew (Pig’s Ass Porter) but Beltian White talked me down. In face, it made me a convert. One of the best Belgian whites not made with Belgian hands.
Rating: 8.5/10

Hippy Highway Oatmeal Stout
Lone Peak Brewing, Big Sky, MT
Sampled: Sept. 14, Montana AleWorks
While the only oatmeal stout I sampled on the trip,Hippy Highway came off as over-the-top as its name. With a creamy oat-chocolate nose, the flavor goes a bit overboard, turning out an American version of the classic British style. Its highly bitter finish has a slight hop assertion amid of mountain of expresso. While it hits all the oatmeal stout milestones, amped-up American versions have become a bit too commonplace. Worthy of a try, but stick with Plum Street if you crave a dark session ale.
Rating: 6.5/10

Alaskan White
Alaskan Brewing Co., Juneau, AK
Sampled: Sept 15, Aero Inn, Kalispell
While not a Montana native, those of us east of the Rockies can only get a taste of Alaskan Brewing’s great reputation. While kicking it in Kalispell – as close as I’ve been to Alaska – this wheat ale hit the spot.
Rating: 7.5/10

Dancing Trout
Bayern Brewing Co., Missoula, MT
Sampled: Sept. 13-17
Any beer bold enough to go with a label depicting a fly fisherman waltzing with a giant trout starts in the right place. Caramel and pilsner malts dominate the nose but leave enough leg room for an herbal bouquet of chamomile and lemon. This filtered wheat ale develops a complex, drinkable nature unlike most other sessions beers. Adding wheat malt turns a simple golden ale into a more rewarding brew; the crisp biscuit notes stack up well against the wheat.

Filtering the beer drastically departs from the witbier or hefe-weizen standards, but here it works to great effect.An estery finish, strengthened by orange and lemon zest, reels it all in. By sticking with . the Bavarian Purity Law, Bayern Dancing Trout never hems itself in. In fact, this filtered wheat ale enters territory few ales of any stripes bother to tread. If Dancing Trout ever migrated to Tennessee, it could easily become my daily ale.
Rating: 9/10

Bozone Hefeweizen
Bozeman, MT
Sampled Sept. 16, McKenzie River Pizza Co.
Almost opaque rusty orange, the Bozone has me worried with its muted banana-clove opening; I don’t have time for Blue Moon copycats, and the alcoholic orange juice start left me shaking my head. Luckily, I had time to let the beer warm, and it opened up with a delightful thrust of wheat malt. The other flavors sharpen as wel, and it finishes with a clean citrus bite. While not on par with Alaskan White or St. Wilbur Weizen, the Bozone clearly leapfrogs most domestic craft hefeweizens, so along as it is allowed to warm slightly.
Rating: 7/10

Blue Collar English Special Bitter
Blackfoot River Brewing, Helena
Sampled: Sept. 17, Montana AleWorks (sensing a pattern yet?)
At more than 5 percent ABV, Blue Collar feels a little strong for an Extra Special Bitter, and at first, a little too mild. A subdued hop bitterness arrives after it has a minute to warm – ESBs perform best at room temperature. Nose sports a fresh fruit bouquet, with aroms of cherry gently overtaken by apple and lichee nut. Kudoes to Blackfoot for testing this style.
Rating: 7/10

Bayern Pilsner
Missoula, MT
Sampled: Sept. 17, Montana AleWorks
I’m blaming Montana AleWorks on this one, because I detected a an excellent character from malted barley lurking behind this pilsner which the bar served way too cold. There could be something worthwhile here, but I couldn't find it.
Rating 3/10

Bozone Amber
Bozeman Brewing
Sampled: Sept. 18, 18 Miles to the Border
I wouldn’t be as quickly as the Bozeman Brewery to laud this as my flagship ale – they make the far superior Plum Street Porter. Still, this is a Mexican-style amber, not on par with Yazoo Dos Perros in Nashville, but fine where I sampled it, 18 Miles From the Border, a restaurant owned by Nogales transplants. The malt carries fine caramel and toffee notes that get downright mellow on the finish.
Rating: 6/10

Missouri River Steamboat Lager
Blackfoot River Brewing
Sampled: Sept. 18, Montana AleWorks
I still can’t grasp this one, and almost wish I never did in the first place. Steamboat was easily the worst thing sampled on the journey. Whether served too cold or not, this bland lager just misses all marks. Judged on a one-time sample, it’s no more than 3/10, but I am charitable to the effect of cold on lagers, so we’ll leave it at incomplete, but not at all recommneded.

Moose Drool Brown Ale
Big Sky Brewing Co., Missoula, MT
Sampled: Regularly from Sept. 12 to Sept. 18
Stopping at Costco on my first Montana Saturday, I took a chance on the case of Moose Drool. If it flopped, I was stuck with it for the entire vacation. However, this brown ale’s reputation held up. Think of this Big Sky concoction as Newcastle Brown Ale on steroids. A thick wall of chocolate, nuts and toffee coat the palette, never smothering it. The malt strength hangs in until the finish, but never grows obnoxious. Plenty of novelty names decorate subpar craft brews and extreme brews, but Moose Drool’s bold moniker never feels like a letdown.
Rating: 8.5/10

Scapegoat Pale Ale
Big Sky Brewing Co., Missoula, MT
Sampled: Sept. 17-19
What an affable companion to Moose Drool. Scapegoat provides a genuine shock – a pale ale that actually pours pale in color and a delightful, perfume-filled nose. A vibrant, earthy hop bouquet of Kent Goldings and Crystal varieties follows, making Scapegoat all the more quaffable. From the mountains of Missoula comes one of the continent’s best English-style pale ales. While domestic brewers prefer the push the envelope with pale ales, leaving their more delicate progenitor as an afterthought. But Big Sky Brewing excels at session beers. Scapegoat gets its high grade for daring to go light – it only runs 4.7 percent ABV. This is quite possibly Montana’s best session ale.
Rating: 9.5/10

Bayern St. Wilbur Weizen
Missoula, MT
Sampled: Sept. 19
Bayern produced another stellar logo - a St. Bernard attempting to break through the label - and a top-notch hefeweizen. St. Wilbur comes on strong, pouncing with a maltiness more thick and bitter than most hefeweizens. Instead of the upfront banana-clove dominating the nose, the orange produced by the wheat malt wraps those flavors more comfortably into the whole. St. Wilbur finishes neat with a swift kick of lemon zest. Given this brewery's strong German inclinations, it's unsurprising that it churns out the state's best hefe.
Rating: 8.5/10

Big Hole Mystic White
Big Hole Brewwery, Belgrade, MT
Sampled, Sept. 18
The white bison is a rare beast, with major cultural significance for the Plains Indians. This white grand cru quickly demonstrates its own rare qualities. The transparent gold body has a little wheat-driven haze while trending toward rich flavors like toffee and a nice pepperiness which emerges on the finish. At 7 percent ABV, it hits the strength expected of a Belgian grand cru, a nebolous named applied to a brewery's strongest or best. Rather than amping up the alcohol content higher, Big Hole sticks with a strong yet drinkable level.

Big Hole is the only brewery based in the town where I stayed for most of trip (Bozeman "suburb" Belgrade). Its grand cru proved the singlemost unique libation I acquired.
Rating: 9.5/10

Bitterrout Nut Brown Ale and Sawtooth Blonde Ale
Bitterroot Brewing, Hamilton, MT
Sampled: Sept. 14 (Nut Brown) and Sept. 19 (Sawtooth Blonde)
As much as I loved Moose Drool, this bomber bottle-only brew topped it, thanks to a sweetness elbowed against the nutty and baker’s chocolate flavors. Molasses, coffee and other dark malt flavors rise to the surface. My notes are minimal, but my sensory memories tell me not to skip it when back in Montana. With Sawtooth Blonde, Bitterroot comes through again with this crisp blonde ale. Very grainy and with a bone dry finish, it skewers any local stylistic competition. They only sell these in 22-oz. bomber bottles, and the quality shows.
Ratings: 9/10 for Nut Brown, 8/10 for Sawtooth

If you had the patience to read this far, or the brains to just skip ahead, here are my personal Top Five from Montana. Because the mercury reach 80 every day, the choices skew more toward summer fare. Deep winter would likely swap in a few heavier brews

Montana Top Five

Scapegoat Pale Ale
Big Hole Mystic White
Bayern Dancing Trout
Bitterroot Nut Brown Ale
Beltian White

Last Gasps of Montana

Work deadlines pushed back further updates, so I’ll condense the final three days into one. Rest broke up the few highlights, and has largely been forgotten since I rejoined my blur of a schedule.

Herds Gone to Stone

An adequate fix of wildlife could not compensate for the herds that ruled this terrain for 20 million years, when much of it lied behind prehistoric sea. The Museum of the Rockies filled the gap with its herd of fossilized triceratops and torosaurus.

From his lofty perch, Big Al could not be ignored. With his intact allosaur skeleton, Big Al educated through the wounds emblazoned on his bones. Not necessarily big by allosaur standards or old, he symbolized the unsympathetic world owned by dinosaurs.

The mosasaur and plesiosaurus bones represented the ancient ocean, but few sights drew more stares than the collection of tyrannosaur heads and the intact fossil skeleton still buried in rock. Michael Crichton and Steven Spielberg might attempt to convince us otherwise, but this is as close as we can stand to these prehistoric wonders (the Chicago Field Museum’s “Lucille” tyrannosaur not withstanding). But this museum stands apart, because Montana State University paleontologists and grad students pulled many of these marvels from the mountain earth.

A Taste of Lewis and Clark

I felt a tingle when the lady ranger told me two bull moose had been sighted roaming the grounds of Missouri Headwaters State Park, where the valley’s three mighty rivers became the Missouri.

I once saw where the Missouri dumped into the Mississippi north of St. Louis, so traversing the headwaters felt like an important destination. Plus, this was what Lewis & Clark aimed to find, so if it mattered to that pair, it mattered to me. When else would I be twenty miles from the fabled confluence?

But the possibility of stumbling upon a bull moose – hopefully from a safe distance – tantalized me to no end. As is often life’s fashion, I found only a pile of moose scat atop an isolated bluff, and only spotted raptors in the sky and Montana hares darting in the brush.

As with Yellowstone Lake, I had to dip my hands in the cool clear water for a drink. It would have to sustain me on a few miles of hiking, which I needed to truly grasp the scenery. I climbed atop the mostly bare hill between the newly minted Missouri and the last founding river, the Gallatin.

The regularly placed signs told of the explorers’ actions, which we glean from their diaries. But standing high above those pristine waters, with bird calls and moose grunts (no one will convince me I heard anything else), no explanation is required. They went on from the Gallatin Valley, but Lewis and Clark would have felt something triumph at looking down at the Jefferson meeting the Madison, the origin of the mighty river found. They would have found disappointment that they didn’t confront the fabled Northwest Passage.

The 90-degree temperatures left me parched after a few hours tracing the banks. I had just a few days left at this point, but a dry 90-degree day in lands only a month away from snow had to be appreciated for all its sunburning glory.

Looking down on the valley, out in the streets

I sprang up, wanting to get mountainside before the popular M Mountain trails grew too crowded. With morning temperature sin the high 60s and the sun racing upward, heat always weighed on my mind. Even at 9 a.m, college students already started their hikes en masse. A half-dozen X-gamers raced up and down the hill, scoffing at the crowds which paced the gentle switchbacks.

I guessed the two paths at the mountain’s base would converge before leading to the giant “M” assembled from white stone by MSU students. I guessed wrong, and picking the righthand path meant a tracing a steep ridge that sorely tested my lungpower. Rocky and with sure footing never a certainty, I paused at several smooth-topped boulders, desperate for oxygen that never came fast enough.

The mountainside M confounded me, never appearing any close no matter much I climbed, ant-sized people still milling around the base. The rockiness faded and eventually the vegetation blocked it out.

Puffing away, I essentially crawled the steepest portions and shrugged off the occasional urge to turn around. As the urges worsened, voices up the mountain evolved from mumbles under the wind to modern English, and within a few minutes, I too found the M’s base. After grunting up, I almost sprinted down in the X-gamers; it was easier on my knees, and the relaxed switchbacks could never compare with the path less traveled.

My final Bozeman afternoon was a rich blur. I tagged along while Athens shot footage for a story about belly dancers practicing for a charity performance, then meandered through Bozeman. For a place fed by tourism, Bozeman never felt corrupted by tourism. It bears elements of cool college towns, but lacks the campus dive bars. Its streets include intriguing small businesses

I visited Athens’ friend Francis at his store, Vargo’s Books and Jazz City ( the Klan protested the store when the Cleveland native dared to sell jazz albums). Scouring Francis’ used LPs, a pulled a gem free – Foreign Affairs by Tom Waits. Not only that, the selection of local interest books had exactly the book that made me nerd out – The Roadside Geology of Montana. I chatted with Francis about old Cleveland town, a refreshing change from the small talk of the road. I paused at the row of historic buildings destroyed by a gas explosion earlier this year. Other than that loss, the addition and asphalt and the disappearance of wooden sidewalks, Bozeman’s streetscape had not altered much in the past century.

Stopping for coffee, I fed my half my scone to a beautiful friendly dog tied up in front of the coffeehouse. One passerby said the dog’s owner tied him up at least two hours before, and I won’t dwell on my opinions about that. When I passed by 20 minutes after I left him, he had gone, nullifying my need to write a sharply worded note.

After hitting the other record store on the strip and uncovering a nice copy of the original Nuggets compilation (finally, I have the 13^th Floor Elevators “You’re Gonna Miss Me” on record), it was time for beer and a little college football. I wound down my tour of downtown at the Pour House, taking ale advice from a bartender named for a small Tennessee town (Leoma) and talked college football with Bob, a commonsense fell to originally from Pennsylvania. Here in Bozeman, I had touched on the three places I’ve lived the longest in less than an hour.

Epilogue: Sweet symmetry

Athens delighted us with a corned beef on my last night and the drink led us both to pass out 10 minutes into The Harder They Fall, Humphrey Bogart’s last film. As it always does at vacation’s end, morning arrived too soon. I packed up shop, and we headed to the Gourmet Gas Station for one last meal, breakfast quesadillas with prime rib. The succulent Montana beef still holds sway with my taste buds.

The previous Saturday, we went from Gallatin Field directly to the Gourmet Gas Station for a burger that served as an amazing introduction to Montana beef. Then as before, Athens and I talked politics, ripped on the quality of the local news (a photo essay about the rutting elk excepted), and reminisced a little about the old days at SNP. The symmetry was not lost on me, and thanks to the days of rest and moving on my own schedule, I appreciated it more fully.

Flathead, Bison and One Strange Hitchhiker

After a harrowing round of nightmares, dawn in Kalispell couldn't arrive soon enough. When I dreamt that the state of Montana had indicted my brother for accidentally starting a forest fire near Glacier and woke up following the site of Joe innocently smiling in his prison mugshot, the time arrived for the slow road back to Bozeman.

As the sun overtook the Rockies to the east, I traced the western short of Flathead Lake, a 300-foot glacial groove that bore the same character of the national park's waterways. Its rich scenery stuck with the highway all the way to picturesque Polson, a tiny resort town on the lake's southern point with all the best views.

In a matter of minutes, the Mission Mountains took over dominance of the eastern horizon, their peaks appearing impenetrable from the two-lane highway. In my first break since the sun glittered on Kalispell's main drag, I stopped for a scenic overlook filling in some blanks about the mountains.

While reading, I heard a rapid series of thuds closing in on my position. Because I stood close to the sign, I had no clue what would arrive when the tracks in the tall grass stopped. But it was just a large dog, possibly belonging to a nearby farm or the owners of the car parked overnight at the overlook. In any event, the dog was friendly, boisterous and hungry. With just a bunch of bananas and a packet of Mother's Cookies, I had little to offer him. This affable creature wanted most what I could not offer - a ride. The dog kept trying to get in my car, and like a spurned lover, began trotting out behind me as I pulled away.

Just like with a real hitckhiker, I cut out quickly from the overlook to keep him from following me into the road. It's too bad, really - that dog would have put a certain punk-ass cat in line really quickly.

Hitchhike in the rearview, I stopped ahead for what appeared a scenic of small, tanned hills and rolling pasture. Then I noticed the fence only contained cows on one chunk of farm, and two distant bison grazed the hills. I stumbled upon the outliers of the nation's own bison herd, a group put under federal protection by Teddy Roosevelt a century ago.

Inside the National Bison Range, I quickly traversed the gravel switchback roads (which are easier to handle when they only allow one-way traffic) and found one large herd lounge and wallowing in the foothills.

Further up the road, as the overlooks opened onto the Mission Mountains and the Flathead Valley, I spotted a bald eagle scouting for prey, a second bison herd on the range's interior hills, and group of elk similarly tucked away. Down on the plains, spirited antelope grazed and raced. I stopped to watch one male galloping at marathon pace toward the females. There was no choice but to watch them frolic - with the rental car due back in Bozeman at 5, all wildlife was local after this. This little antelope show was the last guarantee.

But wildlife won't be kept down in Montana. Ten miles short of the airport, after nearly 200 miles of interstate, one last pass across the Continental Divide with my underpowered Corolla and the encore of the equally steep Tobacco Root Mountains, I glanced a single mule deer standing on a bluff which overlooked the highway. His regal posture seemed a sure sign Montana wanted to offer one more glance of its less tame side.

Glaciers Only Rush When Shrinking

Dawn seemed stuck for hours that morning, trailing me west till the sun finally shoved through just south of Helena, the capital with its German-replica cathedral. Aside from random pick-ups and a herd of mule deer near Townsend, signs of life grew rare. On the road to Glacier National Park, I took them where I could.

Beyond Helena, Interstate 15 climbed through some mountain passes before U.S. 287 broke off again, teasing with peeks at the distant Rockies before returning to endless farmed plains. Horses and cattle were often the only life for miles. Tiny cities broke up the breadbasket - with their well-kept, eclectic housing, towns like August and Choteau were a welcome respite. But they spoke volumes about the life here - I didn't spy a single person under 60. Only the farming life can prevent the flight of youth, apparently.

Adjacent to Glacier lies the Blackfeet Indian reservation and aside from one giant construction delay and a strong showing from Bureau of Indian Affairs police, it was largely uneventful. As I crossed the plains, the desire to reach the park had gained a fever pitch. The mountains had been to my left for hours, yet the road had grown no closer. Earlier, the sun's glimmer on the upper rock faces convinced me I saw snow-capped peaks, but later those heights were revealed as highly reflective weathered stone.

If I hadn't driven across Kansas twice, it might have been the loneliest drive I've taken. The itch created by this mountain majesty made it worse.

Finally the reservation ran into national park territory, or so I thought. By heading to East Glacier, I turned onto mountainous journey I didn't need to take.

Meet on the Ledge
No sign in East Glacier warned that the road would soon rise thousands of feet, turn mostly to gravel and follow a 25 mph speed limit. While northbound traffic earned the inside track until the very end, the narrow road was a concern. Two Medicine Lake and the park's outer peaks sprouted across the valley, but my mind had to stick with the road or what little of it there was. Another car more or less attached to the rear of my rental, adding to the road stress.

Nine miles later it descended and a slightly superior drive replaced it for the path to Saint Mary, the park's east gate.

From the start, the vistas of Saint Mary Lake were unforgettable. I stopped for little hikes at Rising Sun and the nature trail at Sun Point because time wasn't on my side. For the larger journeys to the Granite Park Chalet or the Grinnell Glacier, take had already run too short. In underestimated the trip north, I resigned myself to Going-to-the-Sun Road and the trails close to it. The views were beautiful enough, and knowing I missed a huge chunk of the longer trails and backcountry is the perfect catalyst for another trip to Glacier.

Like most, I stopped for the Jackson Glacier overlook, gazing at the mountaintop ice sheet far in the distance. Glaciers are an endangered species with few ways to halt their shrinking. The giants which carved up this stretch of the Rockies are long gone, and their descendants don't have much life left. Upon the heights of the Hidden Lake trail, at least one other glacier became visible, but don't ask me to name it. After a time, discerning between ice sheets and glaciers became more difficult.

Going to the Sun, Going to the Goats
Aside from gliding ospreys and hawks, the wildlife rarely strayed into public areas for the first few miles. It was all glacial deposits, deep blue lakes and mountains scraped down to horns ... not that there is anything wrong with that. But I spent $40 on beer spray and wanted at least a vague feeling that I might need it. But the Glacier Bear Jamboree was not in the offing.

Still, I got a better view and newfound respect for one of the parks other, unflappable denizens. As I ascended the Hidden Lake Trail and my breath grew shorter and shorter, someone pointed out a small cluster of mountain goats snacking on vegetation wedged among the lateral moraine above the path.

As the ridge broke up to reveal Hidden Lake, I kept with the trail to the left, noticing a pair of rough-hewn white rocks off to the side. Then one of the rocks moved.

The path had finally com to the mountain goats, this time a grazing mother goat and her kid, who sat in the shade of a small pine. With the Yellowstone bison and elk, I knew not to get close, but the goats flashed a knowing indifference that said they would go on eating so long as I stayed on the path. Standing just a few feet away earned them my quick respect.

The little guy got frightened by the attention momentarily, letting out the saddest "baa" ever heard, but he got over it rapidly. Stretching his back limbs, he stepped closer to his mother; while too shaken to graze with her, his comfortable level definitely rose.

That little encounter told me I had gawked long enough. The intriguing, introspective goats were among the smaller creatures I saw wild for the first time, but they stuck with me more than any others. Bison at 15 feet away were something else, but I appreciate these two much more. These littler grazers survived among the peaks and the predators, yet held onto a calm demeanor despite those harsh surroundings.

With thoughts of goats in my head, I almost sprinted back from Hidden Lake, by lungs suddenly comfortable in the alpine climate.


Kalispell Never Failed
From the divide, the time for descent arrived. Thanks to construction, the move from 7,000 feet above sea level to 3,000 was slow, with way too much time to cast eyes on the steep valley below. Construction meant no stops at the Weeping Wall, a rock sheet with water constantly cascading down it. Crews reinforced the switchback walls and tunnels, beginning the repaving that will cut the park in two later in September.

Job I will never covet: Steamroller driver working backward up the outer edge of the switchbacks down from the Continental Divide.

As the sun plummeted, my time in the park grew short. The last eight or so miles traced the south bank of Lake McDonald, West Glacier's answer to Saint Mary Lake in the east. Standing at a few rushing waterfalls and just watching the reflected mountains dance silently on its surface was the perfect tonic to quench a few hours up above.

In a strange way, the park grew more beautiful that those lower altitudes. Looking up at the peaks and horns from the impossibly clear lakes gave them an august character that climbing their sides could never produce, because I would be too busy catching my breath to enjoy the views.

I grabbed a few Beltian White beers at the General Store close to the exit, bought the second shirt for my brother (more in a later post) and sped onward to Kalispell, gateway to Glacier. The regal nature of mountains and glacial rivers did not diminish outside of the park, partly because I knew where the Flathead River would lead.

While an hour later I found my hotel, a pleasant if spartan old lodge south of the central city, could not digest all seen in the previous hours. I hunted down some Alaskan White at a grocery (the Beltian Whites last all of 45 minutes) and grabbed chicken sandwiches at a local fast-food placed, Frugals, then tried to get my arms around all I'd seen in Glacier.

I'm still trying, in case you wondered.

A (Yellow)stone's Throw

After two days of relative Montana calm, the time arrived for the breakneck portion of my journey, beginning with the bane of family vacations everywhere. 

When my buddy Athens first told me about his TV gig in Bozeman, one of my early thoughts was "Yellowstone National Park, due 90 miles south." I wouldn't have the endure the tourist-trap tackiness of West Yellowstone; I could just set a course and go in the morning.

The narrow mountain valleys south of Bozeman provided a spectacular prologue to the park. Sheer, pine-covered drops ended in the Madison River and U.S. 191, which clung to its banks in many places. As soon as I passed the resort town Big Sky, the traffic peeled away and I had the rugged forest to myself. 

Some 20 miles north of the actual park entrance, Montana drivers taking U.S. 191 cross Yellowstone's border. In early September, hardly anyone travelled the route - I encountered three cars in that span. In no way did the soft entrance prepare me for the wonders of the park itself. Neither did the first 15 miles - while the Madison was entrancing and the scenery undeniable, I wanted more than what the past 100 miles delivered. Yellowstone draws 70,000 people a day during the summer, and there had to be more to it. Once school starts, it draws around 20,000 for September, so while it was hard to avoid tourists, the park roads never turned into Atlanta rush-hour. 

It's appropriate that Yellowstone was America's first national park - it encompasses aspects of all the others I've visited. Between the bare, alpine peaks, the cold clear rivers, the canyon, and all the manifestations of the massive volcano below the park,  it barely leaves anything out. 

Leaving the Madison behind, the road climbed a bit, until finally tufts of smoke rose in the distance. Yellowstone's volcanic legacy reared up at the Fountain Paint Pots, a series of thermal pools and hot springs that in some cases resembled natural Jacuzzis thanks to crystal blue water. Other pots of boiling mud, with their odd scent of sulfur and soil, billowed steam, provided a near-constant reminder of what lies below the park. Unfathomable Yuppie Woman's comment to her husband at the boardwalk entrance: "I don't think there's anything photogenic here."

Shortly after the Paint Pots, a large pack of cars clogged the roadside, meaning wildlife lied close. Sure enough, a cluster of bison lounged across the Firehole River. Rather than join, I rolled the dice that I'd catch more bison down the road. 

At the Old Faithful center, the wildlife prove me correct. The famous geyser is a necessary stop solely to get it off the checklist. Luckily, it streamed away as I approached, saving me the waiting time, and as I left, a familiar congestion slowed southerly traffic.

A family unit of several males, females and young bison grazed, choosing the nibble at the foliage rather than flex those famous tempers. I played tourist here and jumped into the media, snapping a handful of photos before making for the Continental Divide. The park road swooped through the woods, passing a few good viewpoints (it's as close as you can get to Shoshone Lake without hitting the backcountry.

But better lakes soon arrived, as the road curled downward from the divide to hug Yellowstone, which occupies the southern portion of the caldera with its 400-foot depths. When the road reached the shores, I stopped to cup my hands and drink in that beautiful lake water (seriously, I grew up on Lake Erie; this was a rare treat). 

Before long, the road soared again, as lake winnowed down to river, with wide plains and the occasion burst of fly-fishers and wildlife (bison and mule deer). 

North of Yellowstone Lake, wildlife again took center stage. The rangers dropped an alert sign, and when crammed in the crawling traffic, I wondered what to look for. First I spied the male elk foraging at the edge of the trees. Further up, at another ranger sign and another stop, I expected the same. 

Instead, a glance out the passenger window gave away a male bison walking the lip of the northbound lane, immediately next to my car. Had I a passenger, they could have rubbed his burly mane without fully stretching an arm. 

For all the beauty displayed thus far, nothing prepared me for the lower falls of the Yellowstone River, which cascaded into the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. Hell, even the real grand Canyon was no prelude or substitute. The rock faces unveiled the park's in red, gold and earth tones, patterns of geology opened to me for the first time. I expected Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone to be an overstatement, but like the larger gem at the roof of Arizona, words cannot do it credit. 

Still unadjusted to the altitude, I opted to skip Mount Washburn and cruise down its slopes to the north exit at Gardiner, finished the U-shaped journey. Because the path up the mountain starts at 8,000-plus feet above sea level, that left a lot of elevation to shed before. At first the switchbacks felt simple - if you get to hug the mountain, they're always simple. But switchbacks are at best fair weather friends; they give you the inside track but inevitably give you a slow, sharp turn that leaves the car's right edge a foot or two from a several thousand feet of sheer drops. Driving 20 mph or less keeping the temporary Corolla in second gear acclimated me to mountain driving quicker than my lungs took to mountain heights. 

Towers Falls came in a distant second to the canyon falls, but were a necessary stop after the rapid descent. Even more impressive to these eyes were the infinite rows of charred stumps and dead spires still towering on the mountains 20 years after a fire savaged them. 

My plans to spend some time at Mammoth Hot Springs were foiled by the crowds; this piece of the park draws steady visits from the female elk populace and their young. Dozens packed a village green among the old stone buildings. 

Past the springs, the park threw out another ecosystem, this time going with desert. I never expected mountains sprinkled with desert vegetation in northern Wyoming or southern Montana, but those peaks resembled the best of Arizona the entire 50-mile trip north to Livingstone. All the way, rain clouds unleashed their cargo upon the mountains and small settlements. east Coast eyes aren't accustomed to the distances visible out here; rain can be observed from 20 miles away yet the sun might never cease shining overhead. 

Despite covering 126 miles and most of the landmarks, I left Yellowstone feeling I could have covered more terrain. That was until I sparked a conversation with a Yellowstone volunteer at the Montana Aleworks while conducting (ahem) research into Montana brewing practices. When I told him what I covered, he shot a surprised glanced and said, "You covered all that in seven hours?" That put me mind at rest while a pack of rainstorms whipped the Gallatin Valley, and my thoughts turned northward for the sites awaiting at the top of the Lower 48 in the morning. 

How Does That Old Song Go About a Hotel In Kalispell?

I couldn't tell the verses, or if such a song exists. I only know the early drive up through Helena, the mountains beyond and the expansive plains beyond have worn me to the bone. The mountains stress the focused driver, and the plains erupt with their own games.

This I know because I haven't mentioned the grandeur of Glacier National Park. Don't worry, I will. Repeatedly. In every way possible. For now, I'm wondering what energy keeps these fingers typing. For now, let's blame a brain and its neurons firing brightly.

When the mind stops racing from all it has witnessed, the blogging can begin

I covered 126 miles in Yellowstone Park this day (West Yellowstone, down to Yellowstone Lake, then back up to the North Entrance at Gardiner).

But I cannot write about it yet. Tomorrow brings my early morning journey to Glacier, and by the time I return I should be able to process it all.

For now, it's time to prune the vacation beard, finish the seventh beer from a different Montana brewer I've had in the past three days, and pack it up for Glacier, beer mace and all.

Still, let me set the record straight - wild bison grazing in the park? Always cooler than the Buffalo Bills.

The West Has Cornered the Market On Sunsets

The sunsets always trip me up anytime I return to the west. Every color in the spectrum participates as the sun slipped behind the peaks ringing Bozeman, each earning a wide band that slowly met the horizon. 

Granted, I'm easily impressed by nature. But these Rocky foothills are not the green-shrouded hills surrounding Nashville. When the clouds over Denver broke to expose the the extended badlands of Wyoming (now I understand why no one lives there), those hills were forgotten. The prop plane slowly drifted into mountains pepper with chains of crystal blue ponds. 

Even the airport is cool -- Gallatin Field's exposed timber roof and support beams made it feel as if I walked off Frontier Flight 3001 and into a regal mountain lodge. 

Bozeman sits a few hundred feet lower than Denver, but huffing and puffing will occur when walking enough blocks at 5,000 feet above sea level. I also wonder if the purity of air was a shock to a set of lungs used to living right next tot Interstate 40. 

Bozeman has a charming downtown with buildings cutting the same shadow as a century ago (minus the horses and unpaved streets) and the well-populated Montana State University. After a dozen blocks in either direction 

It was a day of small events, from the excellent burgers at the Gourmet Gas Station to beers on the porch a few blocks from the NBC station where Athens works. We grilled out with the NBC staff, I pounded down the Moose Drool Brown Ale and caught the first of eight Western sunsets on the drive home. If the sun must go down, better it go down as it does in the west.