PRAY, MONTANA 2013-02

 

My cabin is on the right, behind

the large garage 

My front yard at sunrise 

My "driveway."

The thermal pool at Chico Hot Springs

It's a long 20 feet from the changing

room to the 104F pool.

 

 

See below 

 

Were havin’ a heat wave, a tropical heat wave…well, actually that was yesterday when the thermo hit a balmy 42F. At the moment it’s snowing. The many faces of M. Nature are apparent in the mountain west.

A local tried to convince me there is a county ordinance forbidding the temperature to rise above freezing between Thanksgiving and March, but in defiance of local law the temperature two days ago roared north of the freezing mark like a NASCAR driver released from yellow. Quite a change from the minus 14F when I arrived 2 weeks ago…

But the wind…and the accompanying chill, compensates measurably. Interstate 90 between Bozeman and Livingston navigates a pass that is infamous for toppling 18-wheelers. In high season one per week is normally blown over and the trick is to not be passing one when it heads south while traveling east.

To fill the hours between 0001 and 2359, I am at the moment immersed in several fascinating tomes on the Manhattan Project. History (for me, at least) has a way of filling time…..

Spending considerable time at the hot spring in the presence of bodies in various states of (sometimes extreme) undress, it appears that I am the only soul in Montana, and perhaps the planet, who doesn’t have a “tat.” From octogenarians to near infants (one can only hope they are the stick-on temporary variety), it seems that tattoos are the craze of the moment.

I likewise resisted the recent fashion of self-puncture, which I note has fallen from favor, perhaps in response to assorted infections and considerable pain that resulted from many piercings. It seems that much of mankind (personkind?) will travel to bizarre and absurd lengths that they might assert their individuality. To me it signals something quite different, something akin to being several limes short of a margarita.

For those with offspring who kvetch over waiting for the school bus on windy days, I noticed a curious sign “SCHOOL ACCESS” (see above) attached to a wooden fence along the road to town. I thought no more until several days ago a yellow caravan discharged 2 who looked to be of Kindergarten variety and they navigated an opening in the fence, crossed a pasture and commenced up a VERY steep hill. There was no house in sight…

Just finished a 5k in 12F weather. Not bad for a geezer…



 

 

 



PRAY, MONTANA 2013-01

Just when you thought it was safe to surf the Net – He’s BAAAAAACK!

Having departed my Nation’s Capital 3 years to the day I returned in January 2010, I now take temporary repose in Pray, MT, south of Livingston, which is a bit west of nowhere. Continuing south for less than 50 miles you arrive at the northern entrance to Yellowstone.

The deficiencies of my one-room cabin are numerous, but it possesses the prime advantage of its locus less than 4 miles from Chico Hot Springs, a genuine (you guessed it) hot spring. From 7-am through 11-pm 7-days a week, one can soak neck down in 104 F degree water while emergent parts are treated to temperatures that rarely rise above 10 F this time of year. Adult beverages may be consumed therein providing proper enclosure in plastic containers.

A pub with country music some nights, a (French equivalent of a) 1-star restaurant (the stingy French allot a maximum of 3 – causing much Gallic amusement when mediocre American tables advertise “5 stars,”) a back bar furnished in century-old mahogany where you can sit at the spot fur trappers cooled their heels and warmed their toes a century ago. God, I love this bar…

There is no TV in the cabin, the absence of which I seem to be acclimating, and for $20/month I get Wi-Fi through my smartphone. No microwave, but I did bring my portable espresso machine and coffee grinder. Roughing it has limitations.

A few annoyances – I must put the beer in the fridge to keep it from freezing, etc., but I see herds of deer and elk through my front window. I’m told a bear occasionally ambles through and the odd pack of coyotes has been spotted. Similar to Washington, DC., just different animals to contend with.

The River’s Edge Saloon several miles downstream has live poker weekends, and the “river” that gives the bar its name is the Yellowstone, walking distance from chez moi.

Lest some fear that I have been entrapped by a religious cult, I note that Pray, MT is named for Charles Nelson Pray, Montana prosecutor, Congressman and judge. Pray sports a Post Office and nada mas. If you want to get crazy you need travel to Emigrant, 5 miles south.

A note on my future: I had considered opening a Clinic. Are you aware how many TV ads say that products are “clinically proven?”  There must be a market here! Then I thought a “pronouncer.”  Each day innumerable numbers of planetary residents bite the dust and are “pronounced dead.” Who does that? One might assume a coroner, but I have never heard one say “I pronounce this person dead.” Just looking for a niche here.

More likely I’ll just wait for the FEMites to let Hurricane Sandy long term recovery contracts. Then off to Staten Island, a location I understand is but marginally less safe than the Montana wilderness.

Pictures to follow (if I can remember how to do that); film at 11.