In the last few days I've put on some miles. Accompanying my sister from her move from Bozeman, Montana to Vancouver, Washington, gave me a quick look at much of rural America in some of the most beautiful country this nation has to offer.
For a fly fisherman, like myself, driving by some of the best waters in Montana, Idaho, and Washington, (Oregon too) is pure torture. But just being there, even if only for a brief moment, is sometimes enough.
To someone who has lived most of his life in an urban environment, what is most striking is the lack of diversity is many of these areas. Of course, that is just a cursory observation because there are Black, Latino, and Asian folks everywhere. In these Northwestern states, there are also large Native populations. The preponderance of Indian casinos everywhere is a not so subtle reminder of that. But many of these little towns are ranching communities and the residents are conservative, fly the flag at every opportunity, and value the space between them and their neighbors.
We stopped for gas at a combo gas station/market in Clinton, Montana. In beat up old Jeep Wrangler, with the steering wheel on the other side of the front seat was a 20 something woman who was the local mail carrier. I wondered if the job had been passed on in her family. Seemed like a good secure job to have in that area in these troubled economic times. She filled the Jeep while staring at her cell phone screen, much like anyone her age. Later, on our way back to I-90, I saw her crawling along the frontage road extending her arm out to the mail boxes that lined the street. There was no other movement on this Tuesday morning in Clinton, save the few cars that wizzed by on the highway.
Despite the proliferation of fast food restaurants every so often, this area has a few brew pubs and diners that give travelers much needed food options. Every town seems to have a Chinese, Italian, and Mexican place. The pubs and restaurants that offer standard fare all seem to have a Cattleman's burger and a vegetarian choice. If it's called the Cattleman's burger, it better be high quality because cattlemen abound in this region.
The mountain passes were filled with low hanging clouds and the wintry mix of rain/snow. On the downhill side, were drizzles, an occasional cell of driving rain, and some weak sunshine.
I look at the people that inhabit these places and wonder about their politics, their personal lives, and their hopes and fears. They might do the same with my presence. Yet, one thing is now fascinating for me. Years ago, when I first started to drive across the country and would stop in rural towns, it was glaringly obvious, because I was young where I stood on political issues and what my values were. In the 60s and 70s, your hair length was often a mirror into your thoughts, beliefs, and values. Right or wrong, people were quick to judge. today, my gray hair and beard, my age, and overall demeanor make those judgements impossible. In short, I look like every other 70 something old duffer in town complete with ball cap and jeans. This makes me smile.
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