Gray Sky Country

(Warning: Despite the gray sky reference, this is not a post about the deluge hitting Nashville.)

The temperature soared into the eighties in the Gallatin Valley during mid-April. By my arrival Thursday, with May brewing, winter had begun an encore. 

The trip I planned took a number of different turns -- well, not turns, since I didn't leave town but one day. But winter still delivered some punches. Instead of Mount Rushmore and Devil's Tower, I got one day of severe rain and immense beauty in North Dakota (see next post). After grabbing my rental Tuesday, I crossed the windy Bozeman Pass to Livingston, the turnoff for Paradise Valley and the north gate to Yellowstone National Park. 

A picture of my grandfather and great-grandfather in front of  the train station spurred me to explore. But the wind prove too much for the man; 10 minutes outside and I was spitting out silt and sand. Those fierce gusts didn't make Livingston inviting, and most of its businesses .were closed until the later hours. A visit to the town that inspired A River Runs Through would have been incomplete without a visit to the Yellowstone River. I took a brief walk  (wind didn't allow for more) and was amazed at how some snowmelt had hastened its pace through Livingston. Little did I know how much time I would spend near the river on Tuesday (again, wait for the next post). 

Returning Saturday to Biblical rains in Nashville, the flakes that would leave Bozeman seemed almost quaint. After spending all day Wednesday on the road, I realized that without an early start, even geting to the Little Bighorn Battlefield would be difficult. With the snow driving quickly messing up the roads and a bit of sinus ugliness brewing behind my nose, I decided to relax. As long as Jon stays in Bozeman, I have a place to stay, and subsequent trips can remedy what I couldn't see this time.  

By Thursday evening, when all the cruddy junk cleared my throat and sinuses, I was ready for snowfall and easily traversed the powdered streets. At least three inches clung to the grass and sidewalks downtown. The wind that accompanies the heavy, wet snow made a great excuse for a trip to the Aleworks. Driving home on a freeway with unfazed drivers never felt better. 

Both late Thursday and Friday I hunkered down at Wild Joe's, the warm, friendly coffeehouse close to Vargo's Books and Jazz City, a store run by Jon's friend Francis. Vargo's got my business again; I picked out a few choice pieces of wax (McCartney's Ram and The Band's Northern Lights - Southern Cross) and some gifts for those back east. At the coffeehouse, I spent hours talking with Scott, an artist taking his first stab at western art. We mostly kept our conversation in the west, ruminating about ice climbing, where to hike in the valley, why I need to return just to drive up to Many Glacier and the dangers of western megafauna (the antlers of a charging bull elk leave a distinct indentation on a rental car that got too close, he noted). 

While Nashville has largely scrubbed away any hints of celebrity-watching, I couldn't help but steal glances at Arlo Guthrie and his buddies across the Aleworks bar during Friday happy hour. His name of grayish hair was tucked beneath a ballcap, but he has very identifiable facial hair, so I had no doubts - plus, he was playing in Bozeman Friday. But Nashville etiquette dictates the famous must be left to their own devices, even if he is the son of folk music's most important innovator. 

Even Saturday it still hung around the valley - we didn't do much more than laundry and lunch at The Garage, a low-key eatery spun from an old auto repair shop. For seconds, the Spanish Peaks would break through, then another front would submerge them. Maybe I should just take the hint and save my Montana exploits for the late summer again.